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BY THE AUTHOR OF THIS VOLUME. 



VIOLET LEE AND OTHER POEMS. 

150 pages. 12mo. Price, $1.25. 



"These poems are the first published productions of one who 
evinces poetic talent of no ordinary degree. They show a delicacy 
of fancy, a tenderness of sentiment, a beauty of conception, and a 
sweetness of expression worthy of the masters of poetic art." — Nor^ 
mat Monthly (Pa.). 

" I have read some of the poems with pleasure." — jfohn G. Whittier. 

" There are bright and sparkling verses among these of Mrs. Ober- 
holtzer, and pleasant thoughts are scattered through the book." — 
Waichman and Reflector (Boston). 

" The poems have the merit of a natural delight in the objects and 
emotions that form the staple of poetic composition." — New York 
Evening Post. 

" A neat and interesting volume for the parlor library. The typo- 
graphical part of the work is executed in Lippincott's best style." — 
New Orleans Times. 

" Many of the poems are delightful. The poet deserves a niche 
in the Westminster Abbey of America's living writers." — Evening 
jfournal (Chicago). 

" It is simple, unpretending, and homelike. The moral and re- 
ligious tone is unexceptionable." — Baltimore Gazette,'' 

" The volume contains some beautiful thoughts." — Herald and Free 
Press (Pa.). 

" It is a rare book, and should be found on every parlor table." — 
Smith's Bazaar (N, Y.). 

" The author has the divine gift of poesy." — Village Record (Pa.), 

"The book is well fitted to be the companion of a long and beauti- 
ful summer day in the country when the mind is attuned to peace 
and beauty." — The Journal (Phila.). 



J. B. LIPPINCOTT «& CO., 

Publishers, Philadelphia. 



^ 



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COME FOR ARBUTUS, 



AND 



OTHER WILD BLOOM. 



BY 



MRS. S. L. OBERHOLTZER. 






PHILADELPHI A : 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

1882. 



T'3 2.4-8^ 

.04-C4 



Copyright, 1881, by MRS. S. L. Oberholtzer. 



TO 



MY TENDERLY BELOVED AND REVERENCED FRIEND, 

JOHN G. WHITTIER, 

WHO HAS KINDLY STOOPED TO LIFT AN OCCASIONAL WILD BLOOM, 

I HUMBLY AND AFFECTIONATELY OFFER THIS 

PALE TOKEN OF SPRINGTIME. 

Cambria Station, Pa., 1881. 



CONTENTS, 



PAGE 

Come for Arbutus ........ 9 

Lines lo 

A Burial Ode . 12 

Lucretia Mott . . . . . . . . > ^3 

Heni-y W. Longfellow . . . . . • • ^5 

An October Prayer . . . . . . . .16 

In Memory of the Brooklyn Burned . . . . .18 

William W. Fell .19 

The Ville-de- Havre 20 

A Christmas Hymn ........ 22 

The Old and New Year 24 

Sue 27 

A Birthday Tribute ........ 28 

In Memory of Henry Wilson . . . . . • 31 

Emily Hambleton . . . . . . . -32 

The Dove's Memoriam . . . . . . '33 

1776— 1876 36 

An Acorn Cup ......... 38 



CONTENTS, 



It is I . 

The Cup of Life . 

Under the Flowers 

Broken Consolation 

Oh, No ! . 

A Worm at the Root 

Sing to the Seam 

The Snow Veil . 

Thirty-Eight 

In Vain 

Once Again 

Brown and White 

The Silver Milestone 

The Solution 

Over the Sea 

Constancy . 

Ute Pass 

The Beautiful Harvest 

A Twilight Fragment 

The Hawthorn Bloom 

Thee . 

The Feeder of Swan 

Waiting at the Nest 

A Sufferer's Impromptu 

Througli the Fissures 

A Lay of Passage 



CONTENTS. 



Mine Own with Usury 

The Death-Bell 

Invocation . 

Disappointment 

Weariness . 

Daffodil 

The Willow 

Our Helplessness 

The Snow Path . 

Time's Unfinished Volume 

The Under-Ground Railroad 

The Station-House 

The Station-Master 

The Pilot . 

An Instance 
Golden-Wedding Lines 
The World's Law 
A Memory Ballad 
Life's April Day . 
Compassionate 
Alone . 
Dead Drunk 
The Vernal Dawn 
Miriam 
In the Wood 
The Color of Fire 



8 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Niagara . . .120 

A Changeless Picture 122 

Periwinkle . . . . . . . . . .124 

The Donkey's Playmates 124 

The Chopping-Block . . . . . . . .126 

Thanksgiving , . . . . . . . .128 

The Harvest Kiss • .129 

The American Tourist's Lesson . , , . . .130 
Lost Music .......... 132 

The Strawberry Tryst . . . . . . . -133 

The Empty Swing . . . . . . . .134 

In the Meadow • . . 135 

Autumn Color . . , . . . . . .137 

The Rain of Separation and the Bow ..... 138 

A Mid-Day Battle Note 140 

Exultation .......... 141 

The Sunshine ......... 142 

The New-Year's Ride ... . . . . , 143 

A National Dirge 146 



COME FOR ARBUTUS. 

Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear ; 
The pink waxen blossoms are waking, I hear ; 
We'll gather an armful of fragrant wild cheer. 
Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear, 
Come for arbutus, my dear. 

Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear ; 

Come through the gray meadow, and pass the black 

weir. 
To brown-margined forest, and part the leaves sere. 
Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear. 
Come for arbutus, my dear. 

Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear ; 
We'll gather the first virgin bloom of the year, 
The blush of spring kisses with coral lips near. 
Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear, 
Come for arbutus, my dear. 



LINES 

ADDRESSED TO JOHN G. WHITTIER ON THE DEATH OF HIS 
FRIEND CHARLES SUMNER. 

The tree of liberty hath blossomed, borne, and shed its 

fruit. 
Long waxed the time to thee and thy colaborer ere 

'twould root. 
Unto your earnest, tender lives our land deep debtor is, 
That it survived to blossom-time and fruitage, thine 

and his. 
Together did you labor, yet apart, with single strength, 
Upholding, nurturing, and fostering it a weary length 
Of years, until it grew to fulness, and the fruit was ripe. 
The nation clashed, and in a conflict dire shook it ; the 

type 
Was good, and freedom-apples, blood-laved, lay about 

our feet. 
Rich to the harvest, juicy with justice, in perfect seed 

replete. 
'Twas not the way thou hadst preferred, or he, to strip 

the tree. 
But for the gatherers' sins they needs must suffering feel, 

and see 
The thorns upon the boughs of liberty, ere they could 

strow 
And recognize the freedom-fruit. 'Twas not for all to 

know 

lO 



LINES TO yOim G. WHITTIER. n 

Its mellow fulness as thou didst, and he ; athrough dull 

air 
The blindfold, striving populace near harvests unaware, 
And count them valueless, until a clearer sight discerns 
And estimates their worth. Our seers are rare. To 

sorrow turns 
Our pride, as man and Nature whisper, with a bated 

breath, 
*'In the mid-afternoon of labor Sumner's kissed of 

death." 
Dear friend, compatriot of thine, colaborer in the cause 
Of right, scarred by the enemy of tree and fruit and laws 
In '56, he pauseth now; the timepiece fails to run ; 
Stilled is the great heart's ticking, hearkening to the 

Lord's "well done." 
The sweets of recompense and light to him ; to us the 

pall. 
Tear-veiled is our submission, but we see God's love 

through all. 
O'ershadowed by the blessing of your grand and 

earnest lives. 
The incense of a nation's peace with thanks perfumes 

the skies, 
And, parting from him, clasp we thee closer, — ah, closer 

still! 
Our rarely pure interpreter, song-servant of Christ's will ! 
Fondly we kiss thy folded wings, and prayerful is our 

touch. 
Linger for aye, our best beloved ! sore is our need of 

such. 
March 17, 1874. 



A BURIAL ODE* 



FOR BAYARD TAYLOR. 



Sung as a part of his funeral services at Longwood Cemetery, 
March 15, 1879. 

Empty the casket, the caged bird outflown ; 
Back again, back again, earth, take thy own ! 
Thou who didst give it thy fairest of clay, 
Clasp thy arms tenderly, fold it away. 

Fold it away; for the loved one has fled. 

Fold it away ; for our hero is dead. 

Carried most lovingly over the sea, 
Bring we our offering, Longwood, to thee; 
Wanderings over, and full garlands won, 
Reverently bring we the dust of thy son. 

Fold it away ; for the great soul has fled. 

Fold it away ; for our hero is dead. 

Leave as our treasures his life and his songs ; 
Take in thy keeping what to thee belongs ; 
Take the wayfarer's inn, God has taken the guest, 
Ours are the memories, — thine is the rest. 

Fold it away ; for the singer has fled. 

Fold it away ; for our hero is dead. 

* Set to music by J. R. Sweney, M.B. 



LUCRETIA MOTT. ' 13 

Back again, back again, earth unto earth ! 
Cradle his slumbers who cradled his birth ; 
Take the form tenderly close to thy breast, 
Gather it lovingly home to its rest. 

Fold it away ; for the tenant has fled. 

Fold it away ; for our hero is dead. 



LUCRETIA MOTT. 

And she is dead whose life was rich 

In labor and in years : 
She lays her earthly clothing off, 

We fold it by with tears 1 

An early laborer in the field, 

She labored long and late 
With hand unsparing to increase 

Freedom and Truth's estate. 

She chose no paths of summer ease. 

Where velvet poppies sway. 
And soft winds blow, and leaf and flower 

Shut out the heat of day. 

Hers was the strait and narrow way, 

The furrow of the Lord, 
Wherein in helping weaker ones 

She found her sweet reward. 

2* 



14 



LUCRETIA MOTT. 

She sowed and tilled and harvested 
God's fields in sun and rain ; 

Of freedom, temperance, and peace 
She reaped the perfect grain. 

On Duty's way are ever thorns, 
That pierce when pushed aside ; 

But souls like hers have conscience' balm 
To heal the wounds they hide. 

So true, so strong, such souls as hers 

In numbers are denied : 
The world is richer that she lived, 

And poorer that she died. 

And now her garment, needed not, 
With autumn's leaves we fold, 

And through the Indian summer's mist 
Her risen self behold. 

The memory of her worth shall live 

Through ages yet unspent ; 
The grateful love of human hearts 

Shall be her monument ! 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 

Sweet and wonderful singer, 

Musical singer and free, 
Sultan of song, retaining 

Parizaday's bird and tree. 

Sweet and wonderful singer. 
Wonderful singer of ours ! 

*' Singing leaves" sweep thy dial. 
The signs of thy years are flowers. 

Sweet and wonderful singer. 
Wonderful singer and sweet. 

The notes we faintly whisper 
Thy full voice rounds complete. 

Sweet and wonderful singer. 
Beautiful singer and fair. 

Angels have laid white lilies 
Upon thy beard and hair. 

Sweet and wonderful singer, 
Wonderful singer and great. 

The world with rose and pansy 
Garlands thy Cambridge gate. 



15 



1 6 OCTOBER. 

Sweet and wonderful singer, 
Faultless singer and rare, 

To thee our wild-flower's tendrils 
Reach out the New Year's prayer. 

Sweet and wonderful singer. 
Wonderful singer and sweet ! 

O most our wind-blown blossoms 
Are a carpet for thy feet. 

January, 1880. 



OCTOBER. 



A PRAYER FOR THE RETURN OF THE STOLEN ROSS CHILD. 

Bright blush the flowers of October, 

Banners aloft wax red, 
The full-blown hopes of summer 

Are strung on crimson thread. 

The white and the pink of daylight 

Have caught the sunset hue. 
And the evening of the season 

Weeps gold instead of dew. 

Bearer of beauty, October, 

Clad in radiant bloom ! 
Summer's sunset gate-keeper ! 

Light by thy smile our gloom. 



OCTOBER. 

Day bath been crowded with sorrow ; 

The country's heart beats sad ; 
By thy mellowing light, October, 

Lead back the infant lad ! 

The arms are weary with waiting 
The parents fond outreach, 

And their anxious souls are aching 
For Charlie's touch and speech. 

The nation with love maternal 
Longs fain to clasp the child 

And ring from her bells heart-gladness 
Through all the autumn mild. 

Our prayers we t^hread, October, 
Amid thy beads of gold, — 

Prayers that the fair-haired darling 
Return to love's stronghold. 

Our prayers we rest, October, 

About thy nut-brown feet. 
And float them to thy flag-staffs, 

That they may angels meet. 

Dear Lord, and omnipresent, 

Sinking the summer sun. 
Who gavest the scarlet October 

The banner, " Day is done," 

Bend closer Thy ear, we pray thee, 
And hear our burdened song : 

Return through the bright October 
The child we have waited long ! 



^7 



October i, 1874. 



IN MEMORY OF THE TWO HUN- 
DRED AND SEVENTY-ONE. 

BURNED IN BROOKLYN THEATRE, DECEMBER 5, 1876. 

Up from the flames and smoke, 

Up rose a trembling wail ; 
The cords of bondage broke ; 
Courage was no avail. 

Fire, the unappeased king, 
Made a mighty offering. 

Crash ! and the blazing pit 

Caught, clasped the empty dust, 
Hurriedly buried it, 

Blind to the precious trust. 
Fire, the unloosed rebel king. 
Made a midnight offering. 

Where rose the trembling wail, 

Hushed at a single breath, 
Stoutest of stout hearts quail. 
Nameless the chars of death. 
Fire, the unrelenting king, 
Near three hundred offering. 

Sightless beyond recall — 

Freed souls, the incense grand 
18 



. WILLIAM W. FELL. 

Burst from the hellish thrall, 

Curled from the blackening brand. 
Fire, the terror-smiting king, 
Made a mighty offering. 

Up from the flames and smoke. 

Up rose the incense pure ; 
An angel sentry spoke, 

" High air is more secure." 
God, the great, eternal King, 
Took the fire-king's offering. 



19 



WILLIAM W. FELL, 

DIED AT BUCKINGHAM, PENNSYLVANIA, JANUARY 4, 1874. 

An echo ne^v is on the stair, 
A halo fresh pervades the air ; 
The golden trail that angels trod 
Our friend has followed up to God. 

His laurels starred with morning dew, 
Green laurels as are worn by few. 
The cherubs lifted from his head, 
And fairer crowning gave instead. 

We hush our hearts that we may hear 
His distant footfall firm and clear! 
We near the stairway's lowest round. 
And sweetest memory flowers abound ! 



THE VILLE-DE-HAVRE. 

Baptized in truth is every bloom, 
And earnestness is their perfume ; 
Our frailty dare not garhmd them, 
Or touch the angel's garment-hem. 

To those who loved him, God alone 
Can make His great compassion known! 
The darkest clouds of sorrow's hour 
Have amber linings of His power. 

He paints the rainbow through the rain. 
And purifies our souls with pain ! 
He calms the Winter into Spring, 
And gives the humblest prayer a wing. 

He loves us all, and soon or late 
Will grief and partings terminate. 
Enfold us in the mantle free 
That Christ outspread on Galilee. 



THE VILLE-DE-HAVRE. 

When the Ville-de-Havre sailed out from port. 

She sailed right merrily ; 
Little she thought to meet Loch Earn 

In the wintry waste of sea. 
But the ashen mists of night came down. 

And no head-lights saw she. 
When a vessel crashed against her side 

And sped on the foaming sea. 



THE VILLE-DE-HAVRE. 2i 

'Twas the dash of death, for the waters leaped 

Through her broken starboard wild : 
The strong men sprang from soft warm berths; 

The mother clasped her child. 
The passengers, crew, and stowaways 

Upon the deck were piled : 
To the hopelessness of such a fate 

They could not be reconciled. 

The air was heavy with prayers and shrieks, 

But the hungry sea heard not ; 
A gurgling gulp, and the Ville-de- Havre 

Slept in a pearly grot. 
Of forms, two hundred and more went down : 

Ah ! who has e'er forgot 
The fearful night and the darker days 

That followed the dread allot ? — 

The days when the ocean voice came home 

Into the hearts of men, 
And hushed them dumb with its thundering tones; 

Gloomy the air was then. 
The land that was sunny and bright before 

Seemed only a dismal fen. 
And the lingering knell of the cruel sea 

Its only denizen. 

Cruel and cold is the ocean depth 

Where coral blossoms blow ; 
Cruel and cold was your stern, Loch Earn, 

To gore the vessel so ! 
Cruel and cold was the winter night 

To let the life-blood flow ; 
3 



22 A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

And, Ville-de-Havre, so cruel and cold 
Were the waves to shroud you so ! 

Oh, cruel and cold is the great salt sea ! 

And full of nameless graves, 
Of forms in its depth, and hearts on land, 

O'er which the water laves ; 
Cruel its columns of frosted foam, 

Cruel its thundering waves. 
Cruel the open, gulping space 

Under its architraves. 

Sleep, Ville-de-Havre, a dreamless sleep ! 

Your freight is in the skies ; 
A thousand deaths and a thousand seas 

The strength of God defies. 
The mermaids trail a wreath for you 

As the billows fall and rise ; 
The angels stretched their saving rope. 

Your crew's in Paradise. 



A CHRISTMAS HYMN.* 

Christmas ! Christmas ! 

Christ was born in Bethlehem. 
Christmas ! Christmas ! 
Time's outshining diadem. 
Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! 

Christ was born in Bethlehem. 
Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! 
Sin's eternal requiem. 

» Set to music by Prof. Thos. O'Neil. 



A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 23 

Christmas ! Christmas ! 

Banquet-time of love and prayer. 
Christmas ! Christmas ! 

God prevaileth everywhere. 
Rejoice ! rejoice 1 rejoice ! 

Christ was born in Bethlehem. 
Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! 
Sin's eternal requiem. 



Christmas ! Christmas ! 

Swell our praise-notes louder, higher. 
Christmas ! Christmas ! 
Till they reach the angel choir. 
Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! 

Christ was born in Bethlehem. 
Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! 
Sin's eternal requiem. 

Christmas ! Christmas ! 

Lord, our notes would reach to Thee! 
Christmas ! Christmas ! 

Christ was sent to set us free. 
Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! 

Christ was born in Bethlehem. 
Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! 
Sin's eternal requiem. 

Christmas ! Christmas ! 

Golden milestone of the years. 
Christmas ! Christmas ! 

Gratitude, and joy, and tears. 



24 



THE OLD AND NEW YEAR. 

Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! 

Christ was born in Betlilehem. 
Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! 

Sin's eternal requiem. 



THE OLD AND NEW YEAR. 

THE OLD YEAR. 

The old year is dying. The night-winds are sighing 

And chanting farewell ; 
Sweet psalms of their singing are lingeringly clinging 

To mountain and dell ; 
They mournfully echo a bated farewell, — 
Farewell, farewell. 

Chill moonlight is falling round his couch, appalling 

The watchers with fear ; 
Afar the stars glimmer, grow fainter and dimmer, 

As slow breathes the year ; 
Clouds pitiful veil them while shedding a tear. 
Farewell, farewell. 

The sun's face is hidden, his great palms unbidden 

Uprise with his grief; 
It is dark, it is cold ; there's no flower on the wold 

To whisper relief; 
The ragged fringed grass sighs, in half unbelief, 
Farewell, farewell. 



THE OLD AND NEW YEAR. 25 

I'he birds have forsaken the north-land, and taken 

The warmth on their wings, 
The song and the gladness ; left silence and sadness 

That voiceless night brings. 
A dirge on the pine-tree's a^olian strings, — 
Farewell, farewell. 

His friends all departed, he dies broken-hearted, 

The year we have blessed ; 
No warmth to restore him, no bloom to strew o'er him, 

He pants for his rest ; 
A fluttering struggle ! there's peace in his breast, — 
Farewell, farewell. 

Farewell, moans the ocean, with trembling emotion. 

Forever farewell. 
Fond human caresses cling to his white tresses 

As low tolls the knell. 
Tired, lost friend of mankind, we weep thy farewell. 
Farewell, farewell. 



THE NEW YEAR. 

The new, new year is born, is born ! 
The midnight lea breaks into morn. 
Joy, with her train of downy glow, 
Spreads the reception-room with snow; 
Carpet of ermine, soft and fair, 
Mystical sprites have fitted there. 

The new, new year is born, is born ! 
His castle-walls with pearl adorn ! 
3* 



26 THE OLD AND NEW YEAR. 

Each niche uncouth obscure from sight 
By imagery of chrysolite. 
Call him a choir of warblers free, 
That he may give of song the key. 

The new, new year is born, is born ! 
Waken, daffodil, blow your horn ! 
Waken, hyacinth, blushing sweet ! 
Blue-bell, come from your brown retreat, 
To ring and ring the gladsome news 
Into the heart of rosy dews. 

The new, new year is born, is born 
To goodly heritage this morn ! 
The amber land, translucent seas. 
The fierce north wind, the velvet breeze, 
The silver mist, the spangled sky, 
Their full obeisance signify. 

The new, new year is born, is born ! 
The regal king of vine and corn. 
He wakes in realm of eider-down ; 
The sun will drop a golden crown 
On to his floating, crinkled hair ; 
Crown him monarch of everywhere. 



SUE. 

Friend of mine with raven tresses ! 
Friend, whom fifteen years' sod presses, 

Yet friend whom fifteen times fifteen 
Cannot press from my soul, I ween, 

To-day the purple harebells swing, 
Vines to the river's moss-edge cling. 

The oak and the maple interlace. 

The shadows dance with a winsome grace 

Across the rock, as they used to do 

When its brown height was crowned by two. 

Raven tresses and soul of snow. 
Memory ever enshrines you so. 

How we wandered, a blinded band. 
To the border of the death-land. 

Forty and more we numbered o'er 
On the verge of the mist-clad shore. 

Pitiful cries and tender care 

Drew some back as we halted there ; 

27 



28 A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE. 

Lingeringly I returned, while you 
Passed the shadowy river through. 

Parted, and yet not parted, we 
Journey still half in company. 

Raven tress in my hand I hold, 
Fashioned a brooch and bound with gold,- 

A link that binds the pure white soul 
Close unto mine while ages roll. 

Rivers may flow, and harebells swing, 
Forests their verdure lose and bring. 

Here, on the brown rock kissed of sun, 
Sit I, forgetting what Time has done, 

Sue and I, together, — apart, — 

The love of soul for the love of heart. 



A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE 

TO WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

A PURE white lily adorns the land, 
Unsoiled its petals as though God's hand 
Brushed tenderly off the dust of years 
And bathed its heart in rainbow tears. 
Arrows of gold on its stamens lay. 
Arrows of gold, as though 'twas May. 



A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE. 

The pollen falls from the stamens' tips 

Softly down on the violets' lips ; 

Violets old and violets new 

Rejoicing are that the lily grew. 
Arrows of gold so lightly sway, 
Arrows of gold the darkest day. 

Proud of the lily we violets be 
That under its shadow crowd the lea, — 
Proud of its height and its strength of stem. 
And proud of its perfume-bordered hem. 
Arrows of gold we pride in too. 
Arrows of gold impearled in dew. 

Full eighty cycles of time are past 

Since the lily's leaves were upward cast ; 

Full eighty cycles of time are dead. 

The world's the lily's violet-bed. 
Arrows of gold its stamens hold. 
Arrows of gold in spotless fold. 

Our lowly hearts and our eyes of blue 
O'erflow with gratitude warm and true ; 
Our fleeting breath ascends, a prayer. 
Lord, make the lily Thy fondest care ! 
Arrows of gold keep in the air. 
Arrows of gold seen everywhere. 

A seraph of light from Thy opal bower 
Commission supporter to the flower ! 
For the winter comes, and its blasts of snow 
Must kiss the lily and downward blow. 



29 



30 



A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE. 

Arrows of gold, frosted, not cold, 
Arrows of gold over the wold. 

If heavier flakes than frosting soft 
Should touch the petals that swing aloft, 
The breath of Thy watching angel there 
Would melt them into the azure air. 
Arrows of gold are pointing up, 
Arrows of gold in calla cup. 

Long be the time ere the arrows fly 
Up, up, from the petals to the sky ! 
All waste would lie the violet-bed 
If the pure white lily drooped its head. 
Arrows of gold, oh, lightly sway 
Over the violet-bed for aye ! 
November 3, 1874. 



Darkness and gloom for the violet-bed ; 
The pure white lily has drooped, — is dead. 
Ripe with the beauty and wealth of time, 
The leaves waft down as a finished chime. 

Arrows of gold an angel's palm 

Bear aloft to a holy calm. 

Christ prizes blossoms of purest mould ; 

For Him the lilies of life unfold ; 

For Him they're gathered, and bloom and sway 

Eternal in God's eternal day. 
Arrows of gold that rest above. 
Arrows of gold, we grieve, we love. 



IN MEMORY OF HENRY WILSON 

Darkness and gloom for the violet-bed, 
Light and rejoicing for overhead ; 
For us an indelible memory fair, 
That fills with lily the violet air. 
Arrows of gold over us still, 
Higher by our Creator's will. 

June, 1878. 



31 



IN MEMORY OF HENRY WILSON, 



VICE-rRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES, WHO DIED NOVEMBER 
22, 1875. 

Earth's arms again are opened. 

And she to her bosom takes 
Her offspring, — clasps him fondly. 

As the winter wind awakes. 

The Abolition laborers 

Sink to rest as autumn leaves, 

Ripe with filled purpose, while the 
Air chants freedom's symphonies. 

The notes of gratitude are hushed 

Full oft by breaks of tears, 
That we the standard-bearers 

Lose of anti-slavery years. 

• Brave Wilson's early struggles 
Made his after-life more sweet. 
His work for the down-trodden 
]\Iore effective and complete. 



32 



EMILY HA MB LE TON. 

The past is not forgotten, 
When the anti-slavery men 

Were but a meagre handful, 
He stood firm amid them then. 

There comes a time for labor, 
And there comes a time for rest 

The never-slumbering Father 
Well knoweth when each is best. 



EMILY HAMBLETON, 

WHO FOUND A HOME AMONG THE ANGELS, 7TH MO. 2, 1876. 

In the sunny long ago, Emily, 
How I loved thy soul of snow, Emily, 
I a child, a woman thou ! 
Sweet the memory lingers now, 
Sweet and sad together blend, Emily, 
Joy and sorrow God doth send, Emily. 

Woman thou of finest cast, Emily, 
Spirit power to far outlast, Emily, 
The bruised casket of the flesh ; 
Lives like thine do ours refresh. 
Energy and justice thine, Emily, 
Live in force and round us shine, Emily. 

All the good that thou hast wrought, Emily, 
All the precious lessons taught, Emily, 



THE DOVE'S ME MORI AM. 

Blossom out and glorify 

Memory, and sanctify 

Present fruitage good to thee, Emily, 

And the fairer yet to be, Emily. 

Truth immortal cannot die, Emily, 

Though thy pure soul floated high, Emily, 

Still will linger ages through 

Impress of thy teachings true. 

The dear life that now seems done, Emily, 

Crowns of heaven and earth hath won, Emily. 



Til 



THE DOVE'S MEMORIAM.* 

Waneth the light on the still, still river; 

Waketh the moon on her fringed crest, 
Becking the stars with the golden quiver 

To spread them out on the blue to rest. 

Browning gray are the river's tresses, 
And weirdly over her brow they toss ; 

Her dampened brush or her fond caresses 
Instil them not with the summer's gloss. 

* During the ravages of yellow fever in Memphis, in October, 1873, 
Mattie Stevenson, a sweet little lUinoisian, aged eighteen, went from 
New England to the rescue of the suffering and dying. After nursing 
several families with unswerving tenderness, she fell a victim to the 
contagion, and died, leaving a gloom and a halo over Memi^liis. 

4 



34 THE DOVE'S MEMORIAM. 

Back from the marge the white, white clover 
Sleeps in its nest and dreams of bees, 

Flecked the sun the heather over 

With drops of bloom in the daisied breeze. 

Stooped the lily to hem the mosses, 
Thread of gold on a veil of green, 

Wild rose blushed in its backward tosses, 
A kiss, a tear, and a breath between. 

A kiss, a breath, and the broad -browed river 

Dasheth her stillness into gloom ; 
A breath, a tear, and her arms deliver 

Us only the shadow of lost perfume. 

Laid the river her fair child, Memphis, 
Close to her feet on the thirsting strand ; 

Wandered she down where the Orient's kiss is 
Long and sweet, ere she oped her hand, 

Put she it down where the sun's bulrushes 
Danced to the music of birds and waves, — 

Down where the fragrance never hushes 
Into the still of snowy graves. 

A serpent came with his saffron breathing, 
Dappled and dank, with the hue of death, 

Came where the child was beauty wreathing, 
Grappled its form to drink its breath. 

Into its heart the fangs were sinking. 
Deep with venom and scorpion dust ; 

A White Dove flew from the north-land, linking 
Her strength with the child's to still the thrust. 



THE DOVE'S MEMORIAM. 

Memphis smiled, took the sympathy tender; 

Hugged the serpent still close his prey ; 
His baneful hold refused surrender, 

The Dove must foil him another way. 

Lifting her feet from the marge of river, 
Pluming her wings for swiftest flight, 

Upward she swung, with her song, '' Deliver," 
Fanning it into the gates of light. 

Fanning it in through the crevice golden. 

Wider ajar at touch of her wing, 
A prayer, a song by the air upholden, 

" Dear Lord, deliver the child, I sing." 

I think, I think the good Lord heard her, 
The jaws of the serpent asunder fell ; 

He slunk away from his half-done murder, 
The river whispers, '' The child is well." 

Resteth the light on the still, still river ; 

Breaketh the morn on the lily land ; 
The stars stoop down in their restless quiver. 

The Dove's transfigured at God's right hand. 



35 



1776. 

From the North-land to the South-land, 
From the Eastward to the West, 

Stretched the forests, chained by mountains, 
And the gleams of silver pressed 

Through the rocky, moss-clad gorges, 
Finding in the lowlands rest. 

Fringed with grasses, ocean-bordered, 

Lay a strip of eastern shore, 
Sprinkled o'er with humble cabins. 

Human birds' -nests, — nothing more. 
Nature held her wilds all silent ; 

Freedom tapped without the door. 

Backward fell the stalwart Indians 

With a slow reluctant tread. 
And the Jand grew broad and golden 

As the forest shadows fled ; 
Then it blushed from gold to scarlet 

While its heroes' blood was shed. 

There were battles, tears, and trials. 

Ere the victory was won ; 
There were storms and self-denials 

Ere the fullest blaze of sun ; 
But our ancestors were patriots. 

And their work was nobly done. 
36 



1876. 

From the North-land to the South-land, 
From the Eastward to the West, 

Ring the voices, echoing music, 
" Rock the century to rest. 

Tenderly in regal glory 

Clasp it to the nation's breast." 

Gone are the primeval forests, 
The rude cabins closer shore 

Long since blossomed into castles. 
Quite unlike the buds of yore. 

Cities stretch along the rivers 
Where the Indian stood before. 

Through the tall indigenous grasses 
Man has trailed an iron thread ; 

Bound the continent together, 
And it wakes beneath his tread ; 

Yields its fullest life and treasure. 

Yields him gold and peace and bread. 

From the North-land to the South-land, 

From the rise to set of sun. 
Throng the millions brave, exultant. 

While their proud hearts beat as one. 
The great nation rocks and blesses, — 

Hush ! the Century's course is run. 
4* 37 



AN ACORN-CUP 

FROM OAK KNOLL, MASSACHUSETTS. 

A DELICATE acorn-cup and fiiir, 
Overflowing with nectar rare ; 
Warm with the Poet's touch, it still 
Bubbles over as by his will. 

What am I, that I dare to lift 
Drops that fall from the cup, his gift ? 
What am I, that the cup's frail stem 
I humbly hold to taste of them ? 

Only the feeblest child of song, 
To whom the table crumbs belong : 
Only a singer in undertone 
Chanting for ears of love alone. 

Dear, perfect Poet ! a week ago 
I walked beside thee where to and fro 
The Oak Knoll breezes, swift or slow, 
Chase the November glow and snow. 

Thy pets the lowing kine and sheep, 
Meek-eyed horses from mangers deep, 
Roger, the guard, Dick, Carlo small, 
Rip Van Winkle, the birds, and all, 
3S 



AN ACORN- CUP. 

I'll long remember their love for thee, 
And thine for every graceful tree 
On the gently rising rounded ground 
Where thy late home has anchor found. 

I see thee reach the oak's high hand 
And take the cup by wild winds fanned ; 
I hear thy pure, strong voice explain 
The wee brown chalice of later rain. 

Thy cups are many. The nymphs design 
Thy broad oak tables, and Graces dine. 
This small one, that has home with me. 
They will scarcely miss in their jubilee ; 

But if there should, when storms have crossed 
The Christmas tide, be any lost. 
On wings of a dream I'll send to thee 
Intact the cup thou gavest me. 

A delicate acorn-cup and fair. 
Overflowing with nectar rare. 
Cherished because it late was thine. 
Only the falling drops are mine. 

November 28, 1880, 



39 



*'IT IS I." 

Still he walks upon the wave, 
Jesus, he alone can save. 
Still to faith he would persuade : 
'* It is I ; be not afraid." 

We are troubled, tempest-tossed. 
Without anchor, almost lost. 
Jesus comes with cheer to aid : 
" It is I; be not afraid." 

Blinded are we, weeping sore ; 
Hear we the sweet voice once more 
That would from all sin dissuade : 
*'It is I; be not afraid." 

Still he walks upon the wave, 
Jesus, he alone can save. 
Still to faith he would persuade: 
'' It is I; be not afraid." 



40 



THE CUP OF LIFE. 

When the Lord divided His children, 

He gave me barely three. 
I prayed, " O Lord, let me keep them, and 

This is enough for me !" 

When the Lord gathered in His children, 

He gathered alike my three ; 
And I cried, *' O Father in heaven ! 

Is there not room for me?" 



UNDER THE FLOWERS.* 

A DECORATION ODE. 

Green is the spring-time and blushing with bloom ; 

Bring we an offering to each soldier's tomb, — 

Offering of blossoms,, of song, and of tears ; 

Gratitude's outburst, the flower-mark of years. 
Love for the memories, bloom for the graves ; 
Slumber on, slumber on, dust of the braves. 
Under the flowers, under the flowers, 
Under the flowers, dear dust of the braves. 



Music by J. R. Sweney, M.B. 

41 



42 BROKEN CONSOLATION. 

Dark were tlie days wlien the farewells were breathed, 
Armies went marching where battle-smoke wreathed, 
Darkness and sorrow at home and abroad, 
Broken lives, broken hearts sank 'neath the sod. 
Love for the memories, bloom for the j^raves ; 
Slumber on, slumber on, dust of the braves, 
Under the flowers, under the flowers. 
Under the flowers, dear dust of the braves. 

Rich with peace-perfume our thoughts rise to-day; 

God-granted tribute we thankfully pay 

Unto our heroes who crossed on war's tide ; 

Watching, they wait us on Time's golden side. 
Love for the memories, bloom for the graves ; 
Slumber on, slumber on, dust of the braves. 
Under the flowers, under the flowers, 
Under the flowers, dear dust of the braves. 



BROKEN CONSOLATION. 

There is a balm, be comforted : 

The mists that pitying kiss 
Our low-bowed heads an earnest are 

The Lord withholds no bliss 

That better were on us bestowed. 

He rounds and domes the mounds, 
And, while He chastens with His hand, 

The greatest love abounds : 



BROKEN CONSOLATION. 

He loves us all, though dim may seem 

That love amid our grief; 
He loves us, to His sheltering wings 

We creep for our relief. 

These narrow mounds of buried hopes, 
The graves of children dear, 

Are stepping-stones that lead to Him 
Through clouded days and clear. 

The tears we shed from aching hearts 

But sanctify our souls ; 
The prayer we utter in our strait 

An angel upward rolls. 

The sad, sad season when the sun 
Weaves shrouds instead of gold, — 

When the embrace of star-clad night 
Is passionless and cold, — 

When chanting birds forget to hush. 
And flowers to check their bloom. 

When life fades into death to us, 
And leaves a darkened room, 

Has still the glory of His smile. 

He wounds that He may heal. 
And through the gloaming shadow-path 

His deepest love reveal. 

These opening blossoms of that love 

Apportioned to our hold 
Are scarcely ours till gathered up 

Where petals fair unfold. 



43 



44 



BROKEN CONSOLATION. 

Ay, gathered up ! and empty bands 

We wring and supplicate, 
Because we cannot still our hearts 

To patience while we wait. 

The walk is brief, we span the graves, 

And we are almost there : 
'Twere better God should take the blooms 

Unto His early care. 

'Twere better, though we feebly say 

It in our heart of hearts, 
While all so dreary seems the world 

From whence our child departs. 

We speak with ripening tongue of faith, 
And pray the years may bring 

Us closer to the Lord we love. 
E'en though through suffering. 

His love ineffable surrounds 

Us, as the atmosphere, — 
The breath of an eternal life 

That lingers with us here. 

Unfathomable to mortal mind 
In durance, depth, and scope. 

Love of all loves, the powerful stay 
Of each immortal hope. 



OH, NO! 

A REPLY TO AN AGED SUFFERER'S REMARK, " PERHAPS THE LORD 
HAS FORGOTTEN ME." 

Oh, no ! He has not forgotten thee ; 

He never forgets His own ; 
His arm in love upholds thee, 

He hears thy feeblest moan. 
Oh, no ! He has not forgotten thee ; 

Embroidering the hem of day, 
Behold the golden stitches 

Set in thy soft array. 

No, no, He has not forgotten thee ; 

He marks well the twilight's fall. 
And wraps in the buds of slumber 

A fragrance of dreams for all. 
Oh, no, He has not forgotten thee ; 

Our memories with seasons dim, 
But God is God eternal, 

And we can rest in Him. 

45 



A WORM AT THE ROOT. 

I SAW by the roadside a pin oak 

Garlanded o'er with green, 
A gloss on its leaves like the laurel 

The shadow and sun between. 

We drew up our steed by the pin oak, 

To rest in the cooling shade 
The arms of its statelier neighbor 

Threw over the golden glade. 

The breeze whispered soft to the pin oak 
Her music and light refrain, 

And the leaves in their satin raiment 
Danced out in a fairy train. 

" Reflection of grace is tlie pin oak," 

I breathe, but a nearer gaze 
Discloses the green brown mottled 

Leaves flecked into sombre phase. 

*' What is it that aileth the pin oak 
And turneth its emerald brown?" 
" A worm at the root," is the answer : 
I muse as the words float down. 
46 



A WORM AT THE ROOT. 47 

A worm at the root of the pin oak, 

'I'hat painteth its every leaf. 
Who e'er with the lens of distance 

Had entered this sad belief! 

Are mortals akin to the pin oak, 

Their worm at the root dire sin ? 
Will the beautiful angel of judgment 

Say, '^Mottled one, come not in" ? 

We may seem as fair as the pin oak 

To the careless passer-by, 
But the spots on the soul God seeth 

With His all-searching eye. 

We have strength that hath not the pin oak 

To cleanse from cankerous gnaw 
Life's root, and the great worm evil 

To throw where it cannot flaw. 

Let us bear in image the pin oak, 

And dig at the worm of sin. 
Lest its blight unaware fall on us 

And mottle what clear had been. 



SING TO THE SEAM. 

The girl who sits in the porchway low- 
Sings to her needle as to and fro 
It weaves the seam with its glittering glow, 
Close in the garment she holds to sew. 

Sing to the seam ; 

Sing it your dream ; 

Lodge in each stitch 

Part of its gleam. 

No " Song of the Shirt" sings she, — oh, no, 
Her words are gleeful, happy, and low ; 
While the shining needle, fast or slow, 
Tosses the thread that it shorter grow. 

Sing to the seam ; 

Sing it your dream ; 

Lodge in each stitch 

Part of its gleam. 

A song's good company while you sew ; 
It helps the needle to onward go 
And trace its work in a dainty row 
O'er the downy, drifted, cambric snow. 

Sing to the seam ; 

Sing it your dream ; 

Lodge in each stitch 

Part of its gleam. 
48 



THE SNOW VEIL. 

A simple song with no work below 
Is lost on the empty air, you know; 
But tune and labor, together aglow. 
The richest blessings of time bestow. 

Sing to the seam ; 

Sing it your dream ; 

Lodge in each stitch 

Part of its gleam. 



49 



THE SNOW VEIL. 

Where the daises used to nestle, 
God has spread a fleecy snow ; 

Where the rocks were rough and jagged 
Winter's crystal blossoms blow. 

All the gnarled, uncouth, unseemly 
Objects that obscured the way 

Have grown beautiful and perfect 
In their softly pure array. 

Wonderful the transformation ! 

Everything is white, so white ; . 
Darkness finds no place to settle ; 

Crippled are the wings of night. 

Sweet must be dear Nature's slumbers 
Underneath the veil of God. 

Can it be she dreams of waking. 
And of spring-time's pulsing sod? 

5* 



5° 



THIRTY-EIGHT. 

Hush we all our words to whispers, 
Lest she, stirring, ope her eyes, 

And the veil that God has loaned her 
Be caught up again by skies. 



THIRTY-EIGHT. 

Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight. 
How birthdays accumulate ! 
Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight 
Lilac springs to celebrate. 

Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight 
Birds of passage, breaths of fate. 
Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight 
Kingdoms of the world's estate. 

Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight 
Thrones that I must abdicate. 
Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight 
Crowns that fall, a feather's weight. 

Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight 
Blossom-pictures delicate. 
Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight 
Steps through mazes intricate. 

Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight 
Steps that doubts assassinate. 



THIRTY-EIGHT. 

Thirty, thirty, thirty- eight 
Failures to commemorate. 

Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight 
Tangled visions to translate. 
Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight 
Half-wrought labors congregate. 

Thirty, thirty, thirty- eight 
Purposes to concentrate. 
Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight 
Glimmering lights illuminate. 

Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight 
Songs with love reverberate. 
Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight 
Sounds on one cord alternate. 

Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight 
Memories sweet to consecrate. 
Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight 
Years that fade and terminate. 

Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight, 

On the verge I hesitate. — 

Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight, 

Gone ! and Time has closed the gate. 



51 



IN VAIN. 

I've told my heart, and I've told my pen, 

To rest, be patient and still. 
I've told my brain, and I've told my soul, 

But they work against my will. 
Full half the pictures they sketch to life 

My hand refuses to frame, 
Being tethered to some more needful toil ; 

But they paint them all the same. 

My frames unpolished, of uncouth words, 

O'ershadovv instead of show 
The opal tints that my waking soul 

Felt over the pictures glow. 
The paintings unframed the fairest are ; 

And so with the books unbound, 
That hum their tunes to the amber air 

With a sweet and siren sound. 

Man fails forever to cage his dreams, 

A will-o'-the-wisp they fly. 
Enticing still, but eluding him, 

Till lost in the distant sky. 
The birds on the leafy bowers will sing 

To the listening moss and fern. 
And the flowers, their mute interpreters, 

Will a smiling upward turn. 
52 



IN VAIN. 

But all the sweet of a warbler's song 

Fades into a plaintive lay 
If we clasp the bird and hedge it in, 

And it pines the livelong day. 
The song that we fain had made our own 

Is lost on the freedom air ; 
The notes that we vainly sought to cage 

Are vanishing everywhere. 

'Tis thus with the pictures our fancy sees 

Aglow with the pearly dew, 
The water-falls, the leaves, and the trees. 

With the sunshine sifting through ; 
No more can we frame than song of birds 

Our visions' slightest part, 
Though the loveliest forms fair Nature made 

Be mirrored on brain and heart. 

It is just as well, I sometimes think. 

If our hands be labor-tied. 
For the picture- dreams that illume my brain 

Are brighter than all beside ; 
And if they were framed, their light would fade, 

Their delicate tints be lost, 
Their sunlit groves that golden float 

Be dark and shadow-crossed. 

So, hush ! I say, to my soul and pen, 

For the hundredth time again ; 
My judgment urges the stern command. 

But they will obey it — when? 



53 



54 



ONCE AGAIN. 

Not, liot, I fear, till the stars come down 

That the azure sky upholds ; 
Not till the brown arms of the earth 

The dust her own enfolds. 



ONCE AGAIN. 

Once again earth's breast is throbbing 
With the quickening pulse of spring ; 

Once again the wild wind's sobbing 
Hushes, and the robins sing. 

Once again the leaves are peeping 
From their sombre hiding-place ; 

Once again the flowers late-sleeping 
Waken, each with smiling face. 

Once again our footfalls meeting 
Lies the velvet carpet green ; 

Once again we pause repeating, 
'* Fairest pattern ever seen." 

Once again the violet catches 

On its lip the kiss of sky ; 
Once again some blossom matches 

Each rare color set on high. 

Once again the breezes linger. 
Cradling soft the odorous air ; 

Once again writ by God's finger 
Is His evidence of care. 



BROWN AND WHITE. 

Once again He proves immortal 
All His power doth create; 

And this footstool by the portal 
Seems a blessed place to wait. 



55 



BROWN AND WHITE. 

Faded are the pink and purple that o'erfringed the 

summer day ; 
Brown and white are all the hangings with which frosty 

breezes play. 

Brown and white, and yet the roses bloom as fresh on 

lovers' cheeks, 
And my Nellie's lips of coral glow as brightly when 

she speaks. 

Brown and white ; yes, I remember in a winter long 

ago 
How we trod one bright December until lost amid the 

snow ; 

Blinded were we by its fleeces, for the sun was growing 

pale. 
And we scarce could see each other, or the bars we had 

to scale. 

Late the school had held that evening, for we had a 

spelling-match. 
And I spelled you down, my darling, on the simple 

word of '' thatch." 



56 



BROWN AND WHITE. 



How you hurried on before me all the long and weary- 
way ! — 

When I smiled and sued forgiveness, you had not a 
word to say. 

But the drifts grew deeper, deeper, till I caught you at 

the bars, 
When I gave a puff and whistle like the steaming of 

the cars ; 

And your laugh, a merry tinkle, like an unbound water- 
fall, 

Dashed the landscape full of music, and there seemed 
no snow at all. 

But the flakes, or something warmer, blinded then and 
there my sight. 

And I saw but you, my darling, in your hood all mot- 
tled white. 

O'er the bars I sprang before you, and I turned to meet 

your face ; 
Rose of scarlet it rebuked me as I snatched a quick 

embrace. 

Brown and white, transformed to golden, lingers still 

that winter day, 
And its memory, like you, darling, turneth every month 

to May. 

Brown and white, you softly answer, are the lines- 

within my hair. 
Smiling that I think your coral ne'er by age has 

bleached fair. 



THE SILVER MILESTONE. ^7 

Brown and white ! The old love-blindness that fell on 

me at the bars 
Tarries yet, and my one vision Time in touching never 

mars. 



THE SILVER MILESTONE. 

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBI-.D TO R. B. AND E. B. LAMBORN, 5TH 
MO. I, 1880. 

While yet in love's fresh morning the higher noon- 
tide sun 

Falls warm, with softening shadows, upon a milestone 
won, 

A silver, silver milestone of life's sweet sacred vow, 

We pause with you translating its clear inscription 
now. 

'•True love is love forever, and years that ebb and 

flow 
But broaden its expansion and purify its glow." 
To-day we hush all sorrow our hearts have felt for 

yours ; 
(God bless the gathered blossoms He keeps where 

bloom endures !) 

We linger round the milestone with our affection 
wreath. 

And beckon richest blessings to hide the cross be- 
neath. 



58 THE SOLUTION. 

Dear kin, and generous-hearted, the trifling meed we 

bring 
Is but a spray returning unto its own with spring. 

The flowers of kindness scattered with free and loving 

hands 
Waft back their fringe of perfume to where their 

prompter stands ; 
We fail, we cannot gather the sweets of memory fair, 
Although they cluster round us and impregnate the air. 

We garland you with prayers as you the milestone pass, 
Your generous acts and efforts our words cannot amass. 
Together, O beloved ! the Master round you fold 
His mantle of protection to reach the milestone gold. 



THE SOLUTION. 

I SEE a face in the glass. 
And I wonder if it can be 

The face of the merry lass 

That used to laugh back at me, 

I note the braids and coils 
Of a silvered chestnut hue. 

And I ask. Are they the spoils 
Of a golden ringlet crew? 



OVER THE SEA. 

I linger pitying o'er 

The lips that were scarlet flame, 
And roses that come no more 

On cheeks that lilies claim. 

The eyes, — ah, the secret's caught ! 

It is gray, not azure, I trace. 
The change of vision has wrought 

This marvellous change of face. 

The lass would laugh at her ease. 
And the crinkled threads of gold 

Would tangle the rose and breeze, 
If blue was color to hold. 



59 



OVER THE SEA. 

Last night I was over the sea, the sea. 

Over the salt blue sea. 
My hair is damp with the breath of the deep, 
My treasury full of trophies I keep. 
Last night I was over the sea, the sea. 

Over the salt blue sea. 

Last night I was over the sea, the sea. 

Over the salt blue sea. 
The ancient, beautiful, storied, and grand 
Were mine for an hour at a dream's command. 
Last night I was over the sea, the sea. 

Over the salt blue sea. 



CONSTANCY. 

Not for one hour, not for one day, 
Not for one year, love I thee ; 

But for all time, and through all space, 
And for all eternity. 



UTE PASS. 



In her silver gown descending, 

Laughs forever Fountain Run ; 
Singing, shouting, leaping chasms. 

Till the Pass of Ute is done. 
Singing, freedom from the mountains. 

Dancing on to meet the sun. 
Dancing on to clothe the river 

In the crystal robe she spun. 

In their livery of labor. 

Climbing up the canon gray. 
Go the dust-veiled teams and teamsters 

All along the Leadville way. 
Weary, hopeful, heavy-laden. 

With their journey just begun, 
And a narrow ledge to plod on. 

How they wish the Ute Pass done ! 
60 



THE BEAUTIFUL HARVEST 6 1 

Meeting, greeting teams and streamlet, 

Little heed ye grandeur free, 
Or that God has cleft the mountain 

Just as Moses did the sea ! 
That He walls the Pass with glory 

As you move with your supplies 
Down to river, up to mankind 

In a gay and labor guise. 



THE BEAUTIFUL HARVEST. 

Out in tlie field the bees are singing 
Love to the clover, and fondly clinging. 
Timothy blossoms and purple fringes 
Sway where odor the gold air tinges ; 
Tiie wheat has grown, her hair is browning; 
Acres of oats have tinted crowning 

It is the harvest. 

The beautiful, bountiful harvest. 

Wonder we half with disbelieving, 
While earth's liberal wealth receiving, 
Whether the land with full life breathing 
E'er was silent beneath snow's wreathing, 
Whether the days by summer lengthened 
Ever were dwarfed, or cold winds strengthened, 
• For we have harvest. 
The beautiful, bountiful harvest. 



02 A TWILIGHT FRAGMENT. 

Sing on, bee, to the blush-bloom clover. 
Wing away, birds, each to your lover. 
Fan us, breeze, with your odorous kisses, 
Toss to us blossoms no spray misses. 
Rest on us, sun, your golden glory. 
Till hearts within chorus the story. 
We have the harvest, 
The beautiful, bountiful harvest. 



A TWILIGHT FRAGMENT. 

The daisies nodded at my feet. 

Which careless crushed the pasture sweet. 

I strode along but half content. 

And little heeding where I went. 

At last I paused ; the day had fled. 

And left, as do the noble dead, 

The grand reflection of its light 

To halo the dim rim of night. 

Tis thus, I said, with every bliss ; 

I only catch its parting kiss. 

They come, they go, whom I hold dear, 

And leave but crimson memories here. 

I lean dejected 'gainst the hedge 

Which borders close the pasture's edge. 

I see the brow of yonder hill. 

Bound with corn's wealth of chlorophyl. 



THE HAWTHORN BLOOM. 63 

I see the tassels white and pink. 
I see — but 'tis a dream, I think — 
A maid who gathers ears of gold 
Within an apron's snow-white fold. 
I see — tlie dream grows real now — 
Adown the corn -path comes a cow, 
Sauntering before the maiden fair 
Who waves a corn-bloom in the air. 

"Hey ! Cherry, out !" The sound is near ; 

My own heart beating too I hear. 

As o'er the hedge I quickly spring 

And Cherry to the pasture bring. 

That curious cow ! I wonder why 

She turns on me her placid eye ; 

She cannot know the corn-m.iid's cheek 

And mine grow pink whene'er we speak. 



THE HAWTHORN BLOOM. 

'TwAS a dingy, smoky, railway-car. 

But he saw not the fume 
As he strode along with a lordly air 

And gazed at his hawthorn bloom. 

The hawthorn smiled in his button-hole, 

And whispered of fingers fair 
That plucked the cluster with merry grace. 

And, blushing, bound it there. 



64 ' THEE. 

'^ Ah, she is as pure as a hawtliorn bloom !" 
He mused, as be sougbt a seat 

(Wbicb be found beside a market dame), 
"And tbe country life is sweet." 

Tbe dust and tbe din were naugbt to bim, 
Witb tbe bawtborn blossom wbite : 

Tbe past, tbe present, tbe future, and sbe 
Were bis, and tbe world was brigbt. 



THEE. 



A WEALTH of words tbe world contains 
Thrown out from tbe forge of tbougbt. 

Coined and bammered by workmen, brains. 
But tbey all might go for nought 

If tbe little one, tbe silvery thee, 

Was not amid tbe wealth for me. 

Millions of hearts tbe pulse of time 

By its beat to being throbs; 
Life and death is its blended chime. 

And its echo smiles and sobs. 
Softly tbe echo falls on me, 
Early and late, the silvery ihee. 

Rivers that rise in mountain springs 
Are lost in tbe foaming seas ; 



THEE. 

Still to the crested wave each sings 

Of its native flowers and trees. 
Were I a stream, the song for me 
Would be the rippling, silvery thee. 

The word was sweet when earth began, 
And God in His mercy great 

Let all its sweetness follow man 
Outside of the Eden gate. 

It holy memories holds for me, 

The little word, the silvery thee. 

The Son of God in transient stay 

Amid the sons of men 
The loving word used day by day. 

It is now as sweet as when 
It fell, the pure and silvery thee, 
From His dear lips on Galilee. 

Immortal word beyond the rest, 

Thou lingerer in my soul ! 
For aye I'll hold thee first and best. 

When the portals backward roll, 
Angels, I know, in calling me, 
Will whisper low the silvery thee. 



65 



THE FEEDER OF SWAN. 

The trailing robe of Summer, looped 

With autumn bur and aster, 
Swept softly near the pond where stooped 

White swan and unknown master. 
The baby hands with verdure filled 

Outstretched the swan were feeding ; 
Above the breeze and wood bird trilled 

A lay of faith exceeding. 

We missed our darling as we gazed 

Upon a strange, wild river, 
And turned our hungry eyes amazed 

To greet him bounty giver. 
As floating snow about him grouped 

The swan with beaks of amber, 
Drift to meet drift, he smiled and stooped 

.Where water-lichens clamber. 



66 



WAITING AT THE NEST. 

I STOOPED at the edge of a graceful wood 
Where the mossiest nest had bird-full stood : 
I parted the veil of moss that threw 
Its filmy shadows of greening blue 
Over the nest, and found but rest. 

The brood had lifted their wings and flown 
Gladly away from the nest outgrown ; 
The mother-bird chirping softly there 
Told me a song of her joyful care 
Over the nest her wings had pressed. 

'' We builded the nest, ah me, ah me ! 
Early and bright did spring flowers be ; 
Gladness was bannered on tree and turf; 
Blossoms wind-gathered in snowy surf 
Over us tossed, our nest embossed. 

" The transient billow to stillness crept, 
A stillness, too, on our nest had slept, 
And love's warm labor more fondly woke 
As into being our life -dream broke ; 
Our wings caressed the brood we blessed. 

''Rearing a brood is no idler's work, 
A parent heart is never a shirk, 

67 



68 WAITING AT THE NEST. 

And day by day the widening bills 

Spurred to action our feet and wills ; 

The worms were brought, the flying taught. 

*' Nights that were weariest seemed the best, 
Songs the sweetest that hushed them to rest. 
The care was laden with love's perfume. 
Affectionate labor had its resume. 
Ever so small be birdlings all, 

^' They pay their way witli the love they bring ; 
A heart expands with an outstretched wing: 
Each little head has its nook for rest 
Under the shelter, close to the breast, 
A nook its own and its alone. 

*' A shadow into our sunlight fell. 
Death's angel passed, and said, ' 'Tis well, 
The Father needeth young birds to sing.' 
She lifted two from under my wing, 
Nor asked, nor told. Oh, Death is bold ! 

'* But sadder still was the day and dark 
A birdling flew into nature's park ; 
The sprightliest one we had was she ; 
She chirped her song from the highest tree, 
Chirped merrily her notes of glee. 

" So slight, but she could not tread on air, 
She stepped amiss, and her form lay there. 
An angel lifted her up and flew 
Noiselessly on through the ether blue, 
And sorrow left with us bereft. 



A SUFFERER'S IMPROMPTU. 69 

" Followed my mate in the angel's wake 

To guide back the bird she'd stooped to take; — 

He must have stopped in heaven to rest, 

For he came not back to the mossy nest, 

Nor yet to sing at the call of spring. 

'' Our other birdlings, oh, six are they 
In scattered nests of their own to-day, 
While I still cling to mine in the wood 
With a restful patience half understood, 
And wait my mate, though he be late." 



A SUFFERER'S IMPROMPTU. 

My aches and ails could I shake 
Away as dust from my feet, 

Be dead to the pangs of flesh. 
And to pain's unceasing beat, 

Methinks I should tread on air 

And rival a care-free bird. 
That my unbound voice should thrill 

Forever one grateful word. 

A life of ills and comi)laint 

Is a selfish one at best : 
A soul in an unsound house 

Continually finds unrest. 

7 



70 



A SUFFERER'S IMPROMPTU. 

There's sometimes a half desire 
To leave the tenement worn, 

And a wondering discontent 

With burdens that must be borne. 

Life to the stanch and strong 

A glorious boon must be, 
For it seems the smile of God 

Full often to ailing me. 

And if I were well just once 
For a whole, a livelong day, 

I might go wild with the joy ; 
So patience, not health, I pray. 

Patience, to bear all the pains. 
To dwarf not the growing soul ; 

Patience, to tenant the flesh 
Nor murmur it is not whole. 

Patience and most hopeful faith 
Towards all that remains undone ; 

Patience to watch and to wait 
Till the sands of life are run. 

'Tis only a little time, 

How little we may not know. 

Till the house will crumble down, 
The tenant be free to go 

Where the sounds are not walled in, 
Where there are no pains of breath. 

In peace will the soul forget 
It passed the valley of death. 



THROUGH THE FISSURES. 

And the peace will be no less 
The valley was dark and long: 

So I only ask for power 

To suffer and yet be strong. 



71 



THROUGH THE FISSURES. 

The joys of years, the snows of years, 

Are piling into drifts; 
And yet how oft a breath of spring 

Divides the past in rifts ! 

We pause, and through the fissures see 
The visions long, long past ; 

Ourselves as children on some knee 
Where love has bound us fiist. 

We take the feelings, are a pet 

Within the loving arms: 
The gladness and protection come 

Of being safe from harms. 

We journey to expanding youth. 

That half-developed state 
Where restless upon childhood's rim 

We dawning manhood wait. 



A LAY OF PASSAGE. 

The friends of then, the plans of then. 

We hold and have them still ; 
Some blossom sweetly, some are dead. 

According to God's will. 

But they are ours as clear as then, 

Within our memory sight: 
We softly through the fissures glide 

And dwell with them to-night. 

We fain would lay our cares aside, 
Our growth and years discard. 

And be again a child as then. 
With loving arms to guard. 

We fain, but years drift on and on 

Nor ever backward turn ; 
'Tis only in our heart of hearts 

These lights of memory burn. 



A LAY OF PASSAGE. 

In the floating purple mist, 
Close to us and yet so far. 

Is the beacon we have missed, 
Shining, flashing like a star. 

As we near it, it recedes, 

Distance by the air disguised ; 

When we reach the longed-for place, 
Hopes are still unrealized. 



MINE OWN WITH USURY. 

Perfect comfort and content 

Are not clasped by mortals here, 

But we chant tlieir threnodies 
From the cradle to the bier. 

Chant and half forget the joy- 
That within the present lies, 

Asking for the thorn less crowns 
That belong but to the skies. 

Restless and impatient, we 

Deem our lot the lot of pain, 
And earth-blinded cannot see 

Crosses are God's scores of gain. 

Let us feel no discontent, 

Though our hopes should blossom slow ; 
Beacons that elude us here 

For the faithful heavenward glow. 



73 



MINE OWN WITH USURY. 

Luke xix 23. 

'Tjs not enough that we receive 

And hold the nucleus of power 
A nursling in our quiet souls; 

'Tis not enough. There dawns an hour 
When the beneficent Bestower 

With usury demands His own : 
When we must stand beside His gate 

Returning to Him His great loan. 



74 



THE DEATH-BELL. 

Each life a possibility 

Contains, which care and nurturing fair 
Ripens to perfect usefulness. 

Within its sphere, and working there 
With patience, oft some grand design 

Of the All-wise Designer glows 
From a talent lethargy would rust. 

Soul-brightness much to action owes. 
The dormant brain lies dark and dead, 

Unconscious of existence true, 
Its innate power all lost through lack 

Of energy to dare and do. 
Not evenly apportioned are 

The talents. Should our share be one, 
Let us enjoy while we improve 

It, till uncertain time be done. 
Then, when the Powerful Voice repeats, 

"Give me with usury mine own," 
We can relinquish cheerfully 

The required portion at His throne. 



THE DEATH-BELL. 

I HEAR the reverberate bell of death, 

The bell that has rung since time began ; 
Since Cain in anger took Abel's breath 
The bell has swung in a tower o'er man. 
Relentless beat, witli swift repeat, 
Never late, and ever complete. 



THE DEATH-BELL. 

This morn, I hear as the clock strikes three 

A lingering chime, while the house is still ; 
I hear, and I know it is God's decree 

That some of my blood obey death's will. 
Relentless beat, with swift repeat, 
Never late, and ever complete. 

The bells that ring with the music of earth 

Ring glad and free for the bridal train, 
Ring out for revelry, joy, and mirth ; 
But the bells of death are full of pain. 
Relentless beat, with swift repeat, 
Never late, and ever complete. 

The bells that ring to the church below 
Chime out at intervals solemn, clear; 
And whether we heed, or whether we go. 
Lies with our conscience, whether it hear. 
Relentless beat, with swift repeat. 
Never late, and ever complete. 

But the bells that ring to the church on high 

Ring full forever, nor cease to rest. 
And the congregation in the sky 
Continually gathers at their behest. 
Relentless beat, with swift repeat. 
Never late, and ever complete. 

My mind's eye sees through the looming mist 
The tower, the dome, and the bell of gold : 

And I see the doors of amethyst 

At each clear chime of the bell unfold. 



75 



76 THE DEATH-BELL. 

Relentless beat, with swift repeat, 
Never late, and ever complete. 

I see my beloved who sit within 

The beautiful temple aglow with light, 

And, seeing, forget I the world and sin — 

The day eternal transforms the night. 

Relentless beat, with swift repeat, 

Never late, and ever complete. 

The hour is three, the clock out-calls ; 

The hour is three ! screams the chanticleer 
The hour is three, from the death-bell falls, 
And it falls to summon my kindred dear. 
Relentless beat, with swift repeat, 
Never late, and ever complete. 

It makes no tremor to tell me who. 

No change as the sweet Moravian bell ; 
But I know by the way it thrills me through 
That one, a near one, obeyed the knell. 
Relentless beat, with swift repeat, 
Never late, and ever complete. 

Death is all life in the realm above, 

While life is all death as we listen low. 
Lord, teach us all by thy boun(iless love 
To bow as the bell rings to and fro. 
Relentless beat, with swift repeat, 
Never late, and ever complete. 



INVOCATION. 

Thou, God ! who art omniscient, 

Tliy children calm and bless ! 
Pour thou upon our stricken hearts 

Thy balm of peacefulness ! 

We are grieved and sore afflicted ; 

We mourn ; we cannot see 
Through all these thickening damps of earth 

Into futurity. 

The river of death is narrow ; 

A bridge the angels swung. 
And beckoned our loved one over 

The ransomed host among. 

He crossed at a moment's warning, — 

The bridge was swept away ; 
We sit by the river weeping ; 

Comfort us, Lord, we pray ! 

Our parent was fond and tender, 

Steadfastly just and true ; 
The earth seems nearer to heaven 

When he has passed it through. 

77 



78 DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Thou who art ever a Father 

Unto the fatherless ! 
Oh, reach thy loving arms toward us 
In compassionateness ! 
December 17, 1875. 



DISAPPOINTMENT. 

White from the downy mountain 
The north wind sweeps and swells, 

Weaving a fringe for the fountain. 
Headed with funeral bells. 

Closer the brown-haired grasses 
Cling to the friendly breast 

That shelters while north wind passes, 
And hushes them down to rest. 

The delicate bloom and graces 
That swung on perfumed spray 

Have startled, hid their faces, 
And vanished quite away. 

Only the overslept aster. 

Shivering, pale and blue. 
Lingers to share disaster 

And frozen drausrhts of dew. 



WEARINESS. 79 

Instead of incense fragrant 

Sweet in wood and wild, 
Are frowning burs and vagrant 

Where late the mosses smiled. 

The north wind wails and trembles 

A forest of broken notes ; 
The leaden sky dissembles, 

Or as a nun devotes 

Her thoughts to rituals ancient. 

The songs of love and yore 
Have fallen as blossoms transient, 

And gladness is no more. 

The buds of young hopes blasted 

Lie withered on the soul 
Where fair tints once contrasted, — 

And north wind claims the whole. 



WEARINESS. 



I AM tired, so tired, and dulled with pain. 
My courage flags from endless strain. 
I wonder if 'mid life's clouds and rain 
The sun and blossoms will break again. 



3o DAFFODIL. 

I am half dissatisfied and distressed, 
Worn with anxiety, starved for rest. 
I wonder if God when time seems best 
Will fold my wings with His happiest. 

My burden is often heavy to bear. 
If duty has respite, I know not where. 
I wonder if in a desert of care 
There lies an oasis shady, fair. 

I am tired of hand, and tired of heart; 
I pity myself, and the tear-drops start. 
I wonder if close to this busy mart 
The angels glide and their peace impart. 

Weary, discouraged, I bow my head, 
Wishing my weakness were strength instead. 
I wonder if yet in the blue outspread 
There are ravens such as Elijah fed. 



DAFFODIL. 

Not the blossoming daffodil 
That sways her golden bell, 

And rings the spring to fill 
With summer every dell ; 



THE WILLOW. 3 1 

Not the bride-bloom daffodil 

With fair camellia face, 
That balms the air to trill 

The sweetness of her grace ; 

Just canary Daffodil, 

Restless without her cage, 
Employing winning skill 

An entrance to engage. 

Dear chirping Daffodil ! 

How like to human kind ! 
You beat the bars, and still 

When freed are not resigned. 



THE WILLOW. 

The willow sways to the windward 
Her drooping graceful wands, 

Touching the waking clover, 
And the clover understands. 

The willow unfurls her banners 
Of green and tinted gold, 

And the birds choose sites for castles 
Where banners toss and fold. 
8 



82 THE WILLOW. 

The willow smiles her blossoms 
Sweetening the downy air, 

And the bees, a musical army, 
Are gathering honey there. 

The willow fans the grasses 

With trailing bough and wreath. 

And at "hide-and-seek" with sunshine 
Are children underneath. 

The willow, the weeping willow, 
Stoops low and softly sighs 

O'er the mounds the living grieve for. 
Mute sympathy supplies. 

The willow has many voices. 

Ah ! who can comprehend 
A tithe of the power mysterious 

God to a tree doth lend ? 

Unto me the budding willow 
Whispers with breath of si)ring, 

*'The Lord of summer and winter 
Careth for everything." 



OUR HELPLESSNESS. 

Nothing of ourselves we do ! 
Angels stoop to help us through 
All the caverns dark and wide 
Where the o'erwhelming ocean tide 
In reaches. 

And their footprints we may see 
Bending towards eternity, 
All along the open land 
And upon the shining sand 

Of beaches. 

Nothing of ourselves we own ! 
Even life is but a loan ; 
Earth will want the dust again, 
God above the immortal grain 
Of spirit. 

Nothing of ourselves we are ! 
Mendicants of time afar, 
Struggling 'gainst the wave of death. 
Praying with a bated breath 
To clear it. 



83 



THE SNOW PATH. 

There's a lesson for every day in life, 

If we would but pause and read ; 
Volumes and volumes of lore unbound, 

Exponents of nature's creed. 

Just here, on the crisp and ice-bound snow. 

Were letters I did not know. 
Till a child, a precious interpreter. 

Said, ''Mamma, 'tis here we go ! 

*' Here where the great men their tracks have made, 

When the snow was nice and soft ; 
The footmarks are large, and liard as rock ; 

In them we may cross the croft." 

" But tlie way is crooked, my cliild, my child. 

And the strides are all too long. 
The first man trod with a careless gait. 

And marked the pathway wrong. 

" We will break a new one, thou and I, 

With our feet across the wold ; 
Follow, my little one, closely now, 

My footprints over the cold." 
84 



TIME'S UNFINISHED VOLUME. 85 

By a straighter line we reached the point, 

Turned backward the path to see ; 
But the snow, all innocent of our walk. 

Lay billowed most peacefully. 

*^ We are too light for the ice-clad snow, 

So we cannot dent it through ; 
Let us go back by the crooked tracks. 

As the other people do." 

*' Oh, not in that way, my child, my child ! 

Though we leave no print or trace. 
Let us still go home by the nearest way, 

If the dear Lord grant us grace." 



TIME'S UNFINISHED VOLUME. 

HEAD AT THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE NORMAL LITERARY SOCIETY, 
MILLERSVILLE, PA., JANUARY 30, 1880. 

Blushing springs dance on and onward 

In the fulness of unrest. 
Finding peace and comfort only 

When asleep on summer's breast. 

Golden summers sway their sceptres, 

And the rainbows in the air 
Stoop and kiss their seals of color 

On the blossoms everywhere. 
8- 



86 TIME'S UNFINISHED VOLUME. 

Shadows chase and catch the sunbeams, 
Wealth is prisoned in the leaves, 

While each glad succeeding summer 
Binds for autumn all her sheaves. 

Early autumns, glad receivers, 
Open garners of the years, 

Treasure fondly, as their whim is, 
Summer's bloom for winter's shears. 

Later autumns — coats of Joseph 
Every one ye seem to be ! 

Many-colored, blood-dyed, empty, 
While like Jacob grieved are we ; 

For the winters follow, follow. 
And the life we love seems lost. 

All the verdure seared and blighted. 
And the white land famine-crossed. 

Cold and lonely fall the winters ; 

Bird and glow-worm, fire-fly, all. 
Frighted and benumbed with silence. 

Wait till, Egypt-like, springs' call. 

Oft we gather falling petals 

From the seasons in their round. 

Vaguely read with awe the compact 
'Twixt the firmament and ground,— 

Vaguely read, with little learning. 
Gleaning scarce the alphabet. 

Till with film of snow we're blinded, 
Like the rose and violet. 



TIME'S UNFINISHED VOIUME. 87 

Time, the scrivener of the ages, 

Slowly writes, indelibly, 
Turns immutably the pages 

Of the planet's history; 

Writing with the pen of centuries 

Words for ages yet to be ; 
Writing slowly, ever surely. 

On the earth her destiny ; 

Writing, folding down the pages 

Close and closer to her heart, 
Sealing each leaf on the other, 

That frail fingers may not part. 

Deep and numerous are the pages 

Of the volume vast, untold ; 
We pass on, but Time, unceasing. 

Writes, and seasons stoop to fold. 

Curious mankind sometimes cho(?ses 
Treasures from the volume deep ; 

Reaching in among the antiques, 

Takes some relic Time would keep — 

Takes and uses, little heeding 

What of age is writ thereon, 
Or the great baptismal changes 

What he claims has undergone ; 

Takes and uses, soon returning 

Gold and coal and finer clay 
To the bosom of the volume 

Whence he borrowed it away. 



^S TIME'S UNFINISHED VOLUME. 

Notliing keeping, nothing owning, 
We but gaze the briefest span 

On the leaf that Time is turning 
In the Grand Composer's plan. 

Little learning, less discerning, 
When our fragile forms will stand 

Quaintly pictured in the volume 
That is folding on the land. 

We possess naught but the present 
And the moments that are past ; 

All the future is a vision. 
Brilliant, of uncertain cast. 

In the volume we but figure 

Like the small immortal blooms 

That have budded, blown, and slumbered 
For the decking of the tombs. 

Still within us is an incense 
That the volume cannot cage; 

Winged, exultant it uprises 
At the touch of time and age. 

Half in wonder, half in sorrow, 
Mark we the swift flight of years, 

Note the care-lines on our faces, 
On our hearts the scars of tears. 

We have known and grown and suffered ; 

We have loved, been loved again ; 
We have held life's cup of pleasure ; 

We have tasted of its pain. 



TIME'S UNFINISHED VOLUME. 

We have crossed 'mid flowers and brambles, 

Caught the dew upon our feet, 
Plucked the bloom and thorn together, 

Found the bitter and the sweet. 

We have roamed o'er plain and mountain, 
Have been far in canyon deeps; 

We have poised upon the billows 
That the murmuring ocean keeps. 

We have been in wild abysses, 

Climbed the peaks to reach the sun, 

Touched the clouds, and found, descending, 
Visions fade as heights are won. 

We have built our Spanish castles. 
Rich with columns, tall with tow^ers ; 

We have watched them sway and struggle 
To withstand the stormy hours. 

We have seen the flames surround them 

With an eager hungry haste. 
And have memory-vaults of ashes 

Gathered from the whitened waste. 

We have joy-swards green and tufted 
Growing at each vaulted door. 

That the fallen Spanish castles 
Crush or blacken never more. 

Twenty blushing springs have nestled 

Fast asleep in summer's arms, 
Twenty bright, uncertain autumns 

Fled at winter's gray alarms, 



go TIME'S UNFINISHED VOLUME. 

Since, upon a Normal birthday, 

I in Normal chapel stood, 
Breathing feeble words of welcome 

To the literary food. 

Gazed I then on fond familiars. 

Precious friends of ^' truth and right ;" 

While the Normal home-cords bound me, 
Just as you are bound to-night. 

Twenty years are scarce a heart-beat 

In the motion of the past, 
And they seem to flee like shadows 

From the sunshine they've amassed. 

Scattered wide are those familiars, — 
Wider that the war was here ; 

For the price of Afric's freedom 
Cost our country sadly dear. 

Still the noble lives and loving 
We can trace on earth to-day, 

Give us courage, and the friendships 
Never, never fade away. 

Other thoughts than mine turn fondly 
As they stem the laborer's tide. 

To the early hopes they gathered. 

From the watchword* now your pride. 

All around, about, above you, 
To the halo of their dreams. 

And they call with me, "1 love you," 
Till the distance present seems. 

«- " Fight for Truth and Right." 



TIME'S UNFINISHED VOLUME. 

Twenty years, a myth departed, 
I can scarcely own their flight, 

As I see the same instructors* 

Here, that then were my delight, — 

See them quite unchanged, save only 
Silver lines have nearer crept 

To their brains, as though, else lonely, 
Seeking rest where gems are kept ; 

See them quite unchanged, but richer 
For the knowledge they have sown. 

With their eyes and lips reflecting 
All the sunshine they have thrown. 

Grateful blessings cling like mosses 
To their sandals as they pass 

Down the sessions, through the freshness 
Of the fairest floral mass. 

Gathering ever, while they scatter; 

For the wind-blown blossoms there 
Pause a moment, touch the waters, 

Then are drifted on in air; 

Stronger of the touch, yet leaving 
Often waves of fragrance sweet. 

Like the moss that swings and tangles 
Round a lake and streamlet's feet. 

Twenty years ! 'Tis w^ell that birthdays 
Stand as milestones on the way. 

To remind us how the present 
Gains upon the future gay. 



91 



Dr. Edward Brooks and Prof. J. W. Westlake. 



92 



TIME'S UNFINISHED VOIUME. 

How the past recedes and leaves us 

For the sunny long ago, 
While it seems to linger round us 

With its phosphorescent glow. 

Time, the great unwearied scrivener, 

Traces miracles of light 
In the volume he's preparing 

For the Master's oversight. 

Blending gold and shade together, 
Pencillings delicate and grand, 

That, inviolate, each impress 
Be preserved upon the land. 

Wonderful, unfinished volume. 
Leaves on leaves of manuscript. 

Written on forever, ever. 
With a pen in ages dipped ! 

Press some laurel green mementoes 
Of the Normal and the Page* 

In your ponderous book, that later 
May exalted thoughts engage. 

Press and keep them till, completed. 
By the Master's just decree, 

You are lifted to His book-shelves. 
And they fall, that He may see. 

*■ Rival literary societies. 



THE UNDER-GROUND RAILROAD. 

Here, in our own America, 

A railroad under ground, 
Before the freedom bud had swelled, 

Most active service found. 

The narrow, narrow, prayer-laid track 

On abolition ties, 
The tunnels black, with silence arched. 

And walled with sacrifice. 

Were through the States to Canada. 

Brave men of strength and might 
Existed then, and women too. 

Who ran the trains at night. 

The motion slow and toilsome was, 

The engine peril-shod. 
The crew and dark- faced passengers 

Together trusted God, 

Their only beacon His north star, 

Their acme liberty. 
Their fear the coiling serpent's length 

That reached persistently. 

9 93 



94 



THE UNDER-GROUND RAILROAD. 

The darkness stilled, the light succeeds: 

The tunnels, rent in twain 
By rifts of sunshine on their walls, 

Will never close again. 

The slavery serpent, where it basked, 
Has hushed its breath, to feel 

Its hydra head and body crushed 
Beneath a Nation's heel. 

The under-ground has memories left. 

And some that linger here 
I'll pause to lift : the track's old friends 

Perchance may hold them dear. 



THE STATION-HOUSE. 

Still close beneath the forest trees. 
And at the highway's cross. 

The old house sits, its antique hat 
Half hid by clinging moss. 

Its empty arms akimbo rest 

Upon its useless form, 
For long ago the dark men passed 

Whom it gave shelter warm. 

The watchful care it freely gave 

Is now a Nation's trust ; 
And it, with mission well fulfilled, 

Bows down to kiss the dust. 



THE UNDER-GROUND RaJlROAD. 95 

The seal of silence that was set 

Upon its long, low brow 
Has fallen off: who whispered then 

May raise their voices now. 

Uncounted fugitives who paused 

Within the station free 
All made the train-connections clear, 

And passed to liberty. 

The forest shadows lingering guard 

The empty station-house, 
And stoop as close as when within 

Hearts sank at stir of mouse, — 

As close as quarterly meeting days, 

When gifted Friends and dear 
Had their long after-dinner talks. 

Love-harvests, four a year. 

The leaves chant rituals of repose. 

The house must understand 
That sweet communion of sounds 

That sanctifies the land. 



THE STATION-MASTER. 

Ah, well-a-day ! the Lord is good. 

He makes some model men 
For every need, that, when it fades, 

We cannot see again. 



ge THE UNDER-GROUND RAILROAD. 

They follow out His purpose sure; 

From duty never swerve, 
Receiving not through us, but Him, 

The meed which they deserve. 

The station-master staid, erect, 
Unbending will and form. 

Was truth's disciple, with a heart 
By tenderness made warm. 

I see him now, as when a child 

I played about his feet. 
Go in and out, then quietly 

Take his high meeting seat. 

I hear his voice, as steadily 
He reads each afternoon 

The ''Anti-Slavery Standard" wide, 
"The Freeman," the "Tribune," 

And the earnest "Liberator," 
Whose pictured heading then 

AVas more to me than fugitives 
And anti-slavery men. 

I feel again the weariness 

Of unschooled limb and tongue 

From trying to be good and still 
The older folk among. 

I hear the runaways, that come 
As passing clouds, full oft. 

To hover round his open fire. 
Exchange their whispers soft. 



THE UNDER-GROUND RAILROAD. 

I look with wonder that the clouds 

Gather and flee at night, 
And see the panorama dark 

That foreran freedom's light. 

The station-master, e'er alert. 
Glad welcomed every train 

That held the banner liberty. 
And cheered it on again. 

Weary, exotic passengers 

Along the under-ground 
Had not upon the peril track 

A fuller friendship found. 

He never broke his freedom faith, 
And never broke his word ; 

He lived an upright, steadfast life, 
And quietude preferred. 

I only was his grandchild small. 
But children see and hear; 

For even now I seem to breathe 
The cautious atmosphere, 

And, gazing warily around 
From singing grove to sky, 

I question if my older words 
Will stillness crucify. 

The wild azaleas blush and blow, 
The spice-wood buds its gold. 

But they and the sweet poplar lips 
The secrets stoutly hold. 
9* 



97 



gS THE UNDER-GROUND RAILROAD. 



THE PILOT. 

The pilot stanch was Dave Couiitee 

As turtle brown and slow, 
A powerful man, whose great face shone 

Out with a prescient glow. 

A ponderous man, who knew the worth 
Of being a self-bought slave, — 

Who spent his days delivering ware. 
And could look wise or grave. 

Who spent his nights, whene'er it chanced, 

In forwarding with care 
The fugitives from Station V 

To the next haven, where 

The bright north star seemed closer. 

The chance of capture less, 
And the holy breath of freedom 

Nearer with peacefulness. 

He had his books, his pottery-room, 

Freedom of form and mind ; 
He loved the abolition cause 

And his long-suffering kind- 
He loved his ease, and often sat 

The quiet day of rest 
Amid the nnburned earthenware, 

Grand in his Sunday vest. 



THE UNDER-GROUND RAILROAD. 

Deaf unto all around him, save 

The paper wide outspread 
Beneath his broad-bowed spectacles 

And kerchief-shaded head ; 

Or strode he back to Robinson's, 
Across the slumberous wood. 

To tell of perfect fruit in store 
For their crushed brotherhood. 

The station-master's pilot stanch 
Sleeps long since on the lea, 

And he, we trust, from bondage all 
Is absolutely free. 

The ruins gray of Robinson's hut 

Recall, as they withdraw, 
The half-run nineteenth century, 

The Christiana flaw, — 

The restless, reckless passengers 
Who broke the safety code 

And drove in Southern vehicles 
Along the peril road. 



AN INSTANCE. 

The Sabbath sun his veil of gold 
Threw up to meet the day 

And gladden the autumnal tints 
Where orchard shadows play. 



99 



THE UNDER-GROUND RAILROAD. 

He smiled to find an antique chaise 
Swept by the orchard boughs, 

And at the station stable door 
A horse beneath the mows. 

When he had hid his week-day face 

A dozen hours before, 
The self-same team was farther south 

A good five leagues or more. 

The long low kitchen's brow he wreathed, 
And kissed the rose and vine. 

Until the fugitives aroused 
To breathe the air divine. 

Waked by the flowers and wood-birds, 

Little indeed dreamed they 
Their master slept at the Lion, 

Not half a mile away. 

Weary with chase, it was later 
When night for him was done, 

And he walked with the tavern-keeper 
Under the Uwchlan sun. 

Haughtily flaunted his slave-whip, 

Tangling the Sabbath breeze, 
As he crossed our laughing threshold 

Close to the station trees ; 

And firmly its owner held it. 

Taking the broad arm-chair 
My mother, with wondering welcome, 

Set for his comfort there. 



THE UNDER-GROUND RAILROAD. loi 

" Run, children, and call your father ! 

He's just stepped out," she said. 
Then apples fresh from the orchard 

Before the guests she spread. 

Half relish and half impatience 

Flavored the fruit they ate, 
Till father, with easy motion, 

Came through the open gate 

With leisurely courteous greeting. 

He never appeared in haste, 
Though he'd cleared the back door swiftly 

When they the front had faced, 

To signal the low-browed station 

Danger was on the wing. 
His soul was as fair as noonday, 

With soft words blossoming. 

The slave-holder told his grievance 

In terms unpicked and few ; 
It was not leisure or pleasure, 

But recovery he'd in view. 

'' We'll look around," said my father. 

'' My kind and aged sire 
Does sometimes shelter travellers 

Who food and rest require." 

They found the chaise in the sunshine, 

And horse at the stable door : 
The slaves from their angry master 

Were hidden evermore. 



THE UNDER GROUND RAILROAD. 

While he aloud the station stormed 

With voice and footstep bold, 
Denouncing Abolitionists 

Unto the keeper old, 

The slaves to Joshua Robinson's 

Crept after Dave Countee, 
And crouched beneath his kitchen floor 

In listening misery. 

The station searched, the slaves were gone, 
And whither none there knew. 

The bliss of ignorance was fresh 
With prayer's protective dew. 

The master tarried in pursuit — 
The game he reckoned near — 

Until the evening shadows striped 
The sky of golden clear. 

Then, saying, "I will watch the ground," 
He drove with horse and chaise. 

Slave-whip, and tavern-keeper bland. 
Into the gathering haze. 

With reinforcements loud and strong 

He came with dawning day. 
To make a full, exacting search 

And drive his own away. 

He'd have redress, he had the law 

x\nd justice on his side : 
The quaint old buildings' innocence 

In words he oft denied. 



THE UNDER-GROUND RAILROAD. 103 

But they were still, and gave no sign 

Of what had been within. 
*'0n !" cried the crowd, ''to Robinson's," 

With ill-concealed chagrin. 

With reckless haste to Joshua's cot 

The angry men withdrew : 
They tore the loose boards from his floor, 

And peered each crevice through. 

The master stamped, irate, delayed. 

His patience put to flight. 
The four slaves crouched with trembling fear 

'Neath corn-shocks in full sight. 

They parted there, who met not then. 

He going South, they North, 
And Station V was quite content 

To lose them both henceforth. 

The field that joins the woodland still 

Is sweet with psalms of spring. 
And even when the corn-leaves crisp 

I hear peace whispering. 



GOLDEN-WEDDING LINES. 

6th mo. i6, 1881. 

Just half a century has sped 
Since you, dear relatives, were wed, 
Since heart in heart laid trust away 
For this great golden-wedding day. 

The peace of love and calm content 
Have been your happy complement ; 
The richest store that mortals claim, 
Unsullied conscience, soul, and name, 
Is yours, and Heaven's own dews descend 
Upon you as you near life's end. 

In looking forward, fifty years 
Seem a long line of hopes and fears ; 
While, gazing backward, doubtless they 
Are but a fallen flower-spray. 
Time counts by blessings and by breaks; 
The heart forgets the years, and takes 
To itself rewards and crosses, 
Numbering but its gifts and losses. 

Life is the shortest, sweetest, best, 
To those whose years are happiest, 
And it is grandest unto those 
Whose days are full, until the close, 
104 



GOLDEN-WEDDING LINES. 

Of philanthropic, pure desire 
To crush and trample error's fire. 
God notes our each supreme endeavor, 
And counts as gain our efforts ever. 

Whatever good we think or do 
Exists; and distant ages through 
Its impress falls as mellowing lines 
On fruit whose ripeness Time divines. 

Life at its longest day is brief: 
The most we garner a slight sheaf. 
To you, dear friends, the sunset hours 
Are full of pleasant thoughts and flowers. 
Your children and their children come 
Laden with blessings to your home, 
While distant relatives resound 
Echoes of love, and joys abound. 

This marriage-day's bright band of gold 
We trust may yet a diamond hold. 
The Lord who grants these settings rare 
Protect you with His fondest care ! 



105 



THE WORLD'S LAW. 

Is he gifted, is he famous? 

Pick a flaw, pick a flaw. 
Has he talents? be blasphemous; 

'Tis the law, 'tis the law. 

Never give full due to honor, 

Pick a flaw, pick a flaw. 
Have an "if" and "but" for counsellor; 

'Tis the law, 'tis the law. 

Be his soul as snow untinted, 

Pick a flaw, pick a flaw. 
And have it by slander dinted ; 

'Tis the law, 'tis the law. 

Be the life above reproaches, 

Pick a flaw, pick a flaw. 
Drag it down where ill encroaches ; 

'Tis the law, 'tis the law. 

Be the man in power beyond us. 

Pick a flaw, pick a flaw. 
His uprising would despond us, 

'Tis the law, 'tis the law. 
io6 



A MEMORY BALI, AD. 107 

Pull him down, and down forever; 

Pick a flaw, pick a flaw. 
Let him stand erect, no, never ! 

'Tis the law, 'tis the law. 

All the years he is depending, 

Pick a flaw, pick a flaw. 
Only laud his soul ascending ; 

'Tis the law, 'tis the law. 

When no more it matters to him, 

Rest a flaw, rest a flaw. 
And pile up the honor due him ; 

'Tis the law, 'tis the law. 

O'er his grave fan fame to blazes ; 

Rest a flaw, rest a flaw. 
Heap to monument his praises ; 

'Tis the law, 'tis the law. 



A MEMORY BALLAD. 

She passed a beggar on the street 
Most wretched, halt, and blind ; 

She gathered up her silken skirts 
And left him soon behind. 

Again she passed, another day; 

He asked for money, food ; 
She closed her heart and closed her purse, 

And scarcely understood. 



,o8 A MEMORY BALLAD. 

And still again he crossed her way, 

Or rather she crossed his : 
He said, '' O lady ! can you tell 

Where any water is?" 

So proud she tossed her little head. 

And answered not a word. 
The beggar sighed, and thought her deaf; 

But angels knew she heard. 

That night, when after opera 
The carriage bore her home 

To her palatial residence 

In midnight glare and gloam. 

She saw upon the marble steps 
A haggard form and white; 

A glance, — it was the beggar, dead ; 
She screamed in her affright. 

"Oh, how can I get in ? get in ?" 
She wrung her hands in vain. 

" Step over me!" a voice replied. 
And silence fell like pain. 

*'Step over me! step over me !" 

She hears the echo still. 
As though the form forever laid 

Before her by God's will. 



LIFE'S APRIL DAY. 

All smiles and tears, and hopes and fears, 

Are anchored close together ; 
The mortal heart seems but a part 

Of April's captious weather. 

Hours come and go of joy and woe ; 

Our smiles and tears are blended ; 
Our wildest fears at last hope nears, 

And keeps them well attended. 

While dreary clouds the world enshroud, 

The sunshine hovers over ; 
And oft the rain, though dark with pain, 

Doth some new bloom discover, — 

Some blossom sweet the gold and heat 
Had failed to give perfection, — 

Some grace of mind relieved to find. 
Though late, its true direction. 

Speed smiles and tears, speed hopes and fears. 

Expand our best emotions. 
Dissolve all doubt, and blossom out 

To Heaven our soul's devotion. 



109 



COMPASSIONATE. 

The mother died, and the father lifted 

His two-year daughter up 
To kiss the lips that had been to them 

Affection's fullest cup. 

The cup was empty, and cold its edge 

As marble's snowy brim ; 
The wreath of roses that bound it once 

Was pale as lilies dim. 

The child stooped down for her loving draught 

With hungry, trustful heart, 
Then wondering eyes to her father turned : 

*' Mamma don't kiss her part !" 

Strong and warm were the arms that pressed 

The startled child within ; 
Dire was the anguish that filled the breast 

Beneath the quivering chin. 

Some cup is every moment drained 

By hands invisible, 
Some lily for the rose exchanged 

By the omniscient will. 

We each grieve over an empty cup 

With thirsting lip and soul. 
Who loses the draught of mother-love 

Loses more than the whole. 



ALONE. 

The lights are out, and the darkness 
Creeps over the wooded hill, 

Pausing to rest in the valley, 
Where I am alone and still. 

It nestles closer and closer, 

Filling my empty arms, 
As though it would fain be gathered 

Safe from its own alarms. 

Lullaby, hush thee, darkness ! 

Close on my bosom here ; 
Rest till thy wings be strengthened 

For flight when day appear ! 

Lullaby, hush thee, darkness ! 

Close with me thine eyes, 
For sight is blind, and stillness 

Falls from the dewless skies. 

Alone ! hush, hush thee, darkness ! 

The air grows warm with sound ; 
Some sweet mysterious presence 

Our refuge here has found. 



12 DEAD DRUNK. 

Lullaby, wakening darkness ! 

What are the stars to thee? 
Turning thou disturbest the spell 

Thy presence brought to me. 

Are they thy bright-eyed daughters, 
Touching with smiles thy rest? 

Winning with golden glances 
Thee from my longing breast? 

Lullaby! lullaby! lullaby! 

Ah ! but thou wilt not stay : 
I gathered thee in from the hill-side, 

Now thou hast flown away. 

'Tis thus we hush and lullaby 
Forms that we may not hold : 

Til us even darkness has lovers : 
We are alone on the wold. 



DEAD DRUNK. 

I HEARD the words and a jeering laugh ; 

I looked, and a youthful form 
Across my pathway lay stretched and still. 

Its life-pulse beating warm. 



DEAD DRUNK. 113 

And this was a man ! I paused to think, 
Ah, where was the manhood then ? 

It was warped with lethargy, strangled 
With rum, which numbs the souls of men. 

He had a mother, a wife, a child ; 

Unto him was Fortune kind ; 
Rich blessings trailed about his steps 

And fain had round him twined. 

His heart was good, but his courage weak. 
And strong drink bore him down. 

Inch by inch, till it laid him low 
At the feet of the busy town. 

And should we pass this drunken sleep 

With only a careless word. 
Deaf to the groan of a chained-down soul 

The living God has heard? 

Should we let the poison-cup pass round 

A land that is ours in trust, 
Till it blights and drags dear human-kind 

Grovelling into the dust ? 

Shall we, when God in His own good time 

Asks our brother at our hand ; 
Reply, "I am not his keeper. Lord, 

He is dead drunk on the sand" ? 



THE VERNAL DAWN. 

The air is full of hopes 

And presages of bloom. 
The supplicating hands 

Which through the winter's gloom, 
The forest grim and gaunt, 

Stretched, asking raiment, droop 
Laden with promises. 

All beauty seems to group 
And strew earth's lap and brow 

With wreaths of prophecy. 



MIRIAM. 



All the evenings long and chilly, 
Wliere the fire-light crept so stilly, 
Miriam's waxen fingers knitted, 
And the poor were benefited. 
Click, click, click, the needles said, 
Bright warm yarn their motion fed. 
Miriam fair. 
Everywhere 
Poor need care ! 
114 



MIRIAM. 1 1 

Knitting, knitting, silent measure, 
Miriam with demure pleasure 
Watched the mittens shapely growing, 
Thoughts benevolent bestowing. 
Click, click, click, the needles said, 
While she bent her graceful head. 

Miriam fair. 

Everywhere 

Poor need care. 

Poverty my life encumbered 
While the maid her stitches numbered. 
Poverty my heart was aching, 
Restless, and to weird fears waking. 
Click, click, click, the needles said. 
Fast, yet slow, the winter sped. 

Miriam fair, 

Everywhere 

Poor need care. 

Earth hath donned her robes of splendor. 
Snows to bloom make glad surrender. 
Miriam's mittens all are finished 
And my dread of them diminished. 
Click, click, click, the needles said, 
Now she softly speaks, instead. 

Miriam's care 

Everywhere 

I now share. 



IN THE WOOD. 

Nature, I partake your mood, 

Dream amid the solitude 

Of the white-capped summer wood. 

Take me in your lap awhile. 
Mother Nature, and beguile 
All my burdens to a smile. 

Fan the tresses from my face ; 
Rest me in your soft embrace, 
Creature I of unknown space. 

Sing me for the sultry day 
Your most winsome virelay, 
Olden, sweet, and care estray. 

Respite give, and perfect ease, 
Till I feel, alike these trees, 
Only God is mine to please. 

Let me dream the builder's dream, - 
Grow my castles by the stream, 
Amethyst from sill to beam. 
[6 



IN THE WOOD. 117 

Reach their spires to purple skies ; 
Let those foam-clad clouds disguise 
Stairways by which angels rise. 

Foot-sore am I, early worn, 
Closely of all blessings shorn, 
Bearing ills that must be borne. 

Weary am I of the way, 
Yet with perfect faith I pray, 
Mother Nature, lest I stray. 

Lead me by your teachings grand. 

Counsel that I understand. 

How to reach the Lord's right hand. 

Can I climb my stair of dreams 
Up to where the amber gleams 
And the love of Christ redeems ? 

Rock me. Nature, let me be 
Resting with you peacefully, 
Yearning babe upon your knee. 

I have failed to stand alone ; 

Let humility atone 

For the pride I may have shown. 

Lullabies are tender sweet. 
Mother Nature, you repeat. 
And my pulses slower beat, — 



Il8 THE COLOR OF FIRE. 

Slower, till I think I hear, 

Echoing through the wood and weir, 

Choruses of angel cheer. 

How they rest me ! — let me rise ! 
Earth is near, so near the skies. 
And my pathway clearer lies. 



THE COLOR OF FIRE. 

Beside the grate two bachelors 

Sat, toasting gouty toes. 
They groaned and laughed in concert notes, 

Till this dispute arose : 
*^The flame laps with her yellow tongue 

The air. How soft it grows !" 
Said Number One. " I feel relieved 

To have it kiss my toes." 

*' Humph! Yellow tongue ! Poetical, 

For gouty man, you seem. 
The fire is red, dear Michael, red : 

You have a color dream." 
" Oh, fudge and fume !" quoth Number One 

"You're wrong in the extreme. 
Why, all the yellow saffron dyes 

Among these heaped coals gleam. 



THE COLOR OF FIRE. 

" The lady fire snaps yellow eyes 

And tosses yellow hair, 
Her breath is golden, and her smile 

Is yellow : so beware !" 
^' Ha ! ha ! Michael, your color dream 

Doth your good sight impair; 
The widow binds with yellow braids 

Your fancy in a snare, 

*' And yellow, yellow everything 

Looks to your gilded eyes. 
There ! there ! you need not open them 

In such well feigned surprise." 
" Fudge ! folly ! Peter, how you talk. 

And all truth stigmatize ! 
You call the widow yellow, — humph ! 

I'd land you in the skies, 

''But for this gouty, gouty foot. 

Oh, dear, what shall I do 
To prove the measure of contempt 

I entertain for you?" 
''Hold easy, easy, Michael, man, 

Nor take distorted view : 
I saw your foot move half an inch 

To put that sentence through. 

"The fire is red, — of course it is ! 

The widow's locks — why, they 
Were yellow ; but, my dear old friend, 

They will be — now are — gray." 



119 



I20 . NIAGARA. 

Poor Number One ! his passion-height 

The limbs could not obey : 
What should be understandings were 

But helpless pets of clay. 

He groaned, '' I do not care a whit 

For color of the fire ; 
But when you drag the widow in 

I recompense require. 
My arms are stronger than your words, 

And you their strength inspire." 
Thwark ! '' How you writhe ! Ay, gout is sore, 

And should not waken ire." 



NIAGARA. 



Purest, wildest, greenest river, 
Flashing onward to deliver 

Silver wealth from lake to lake, 
Leaping with impatient motion, — 
Do you dream the mother ocean 
Wants you, or her heart will break? 
Restless, dashing. 
Sunbeam-splashing, 
Nation's pet, Niagara. 

Wild your waters toss and tumble ; 
Over crags you laugh and stumble 
Miles and miles above the Fall, 



NIAGARA. 121 

While your arms encircling gather 
Lovely islands, choosing rather 
Hasty kiss than none at all. 
Gleeful, dashing, 
Splashing, flashing, 

Nation's pride, Niagara. 

Rushing, flushing, roaring, singing, 
Then adown the abyss swinging. 
Glory, fulness, mist and shine. 
Witching, wilful, wondrous river, 
Toast of Nature to the Giver 
Of subhmity divine. 

Dashing, pouring. 
Tumbling, roaring, 

Nation's grand Niagara. 

Laden with the dew of gladness. 
Quickened breath of gleeful madness. 

To the peaceful boundary air ; 
Then more quietly you rumble. 
As you catch your breath and mumble 
Rippling snatch of thanks and prayer. 
Leaping, dancing, 
Tossing, prancing, 
Nation's pet, Niagara. 

Skipping, slipping, gliding, sliding, 
To the rocky heights dividing 
Like a canyon shore and shore ; 



122 A CHANGELESS PICTURE. 

Here your wildest laughter spending, 
Whirlpool Rapids, bending, blending 
Spray and music evermore. 

Tossing, foaming, 
Playful, roaming. 

Nation's pet, Niagara. 

Fluttering, rushing, singing, roaring, 
Chlorophyl and silver pouring 

Down the wayward, rugged steep, 
Liberated grandeur dancing. 
And for evermore advancing 
To the silence of the deep. 
Unique, glorious, 
Sprite victorious. 

Nation's pride, Niagara. 



A CHANGELESS PICTURE. 

Eighteen times the satin chestnuts 
From their velvet coaches sprung ; 

Eighteen times the red October 
Hid them her bright folds among ; 

Eighteen times, — and yet the picture 
Bright on memory's wall has hung. 



A CHANGELESS PICTURE. 

It was painted in gay school days 

On the canvas of my heart ; 
And the faces best beloved 

On the foreground sit apart. 
All the freshness of the coloring 

Is preserved with unique art. 

Eighteen times the snows have blossomed 
Since my picture perfect grew ; 

Eighteen times, and some stray petals 
May have fallen, friends, on you ; 

But you're changeless in my picture, 
And the old school vows are true. 

Some of you, I hear, are famous : 

Take my blessing as you go. 
Some have early lain to slumber, 

For the good Lord willed it so ; 
Some are plying oars unceasing. 

Some with currents drifting slow; 

Still you're mine within the picture, — 

Faces dear and faces fair; 
Halos of eternal freshness 

Gathered are about you there. 
Power of living, loving, dying. 

Keep the souls within thy care ! 



123 



PERIWINKLE. 

Nestling matted leaves among, Periwinkle, 
Making beautiful the ground. Periwinkle, 
How thy glossy leaves are found, Periwinkle, 

Shining in the lawn and wild, Periwinkle. 

Creeping, an enchanted vine. Periwinkle, 
In thy unaffected pride, Periwinkle, 
Gaining lovers far and wide. Periwinkle, 

For thy fairy groups of bloom, Periwinkle. 

Nestle, creep, and never climb. Periwinkle, 
Fond companion of the moss, Periwinkle, 
As we pass our skirts emboss, Periwinkle, 

With humility's content, Periwinkle. 



THE DONKEY'S PLAYMATES. 

Up and down a Denver street. 
With solemn pace and slow. 

The children rode a donkey gray. 
Only a month ago. 
124 



777^ DONKEY'S PLAYAfATES. 125 

They rode by turns. The troop who walked 

Shared all the rider's glee. 
The donkey they thought the dearest thing 

That ever a donk' could be. 

They petted, caressed him, kissed his face, 

And honored his least desire ; 
Until he paused and tossed them off 

As signal to retire. 

The donkey rests, the children rest, 

For night comes on alway. 
The breath of evening scattered those 

Who had the happy day. 

Our dreamers on Atlantic coast 

Toss in their sleep and smile, 
And whisper, ''Donkey, donkey dear, 

Let Georgie ride awhile." 

Ah, day, return ! Ah, future, hush 

The motion of thy wings ! 
Two Denver playmates, Georgies both, 

Have gone from earthly things. 



THE CHOPPING-BLOCK. 

''Just move the block this morning, dear; 

'Twill more convenient be 
To have it here beside the gate, 

Beneath the apple-tree. 

''I tire of carrying wood so far, 

There from the distant end ; 
Full half the steps we take 'twould save 

If moved, you may depend !" 

No move or answer gained the wife 

To this her free advice ; 
The thudding chop went on the same, 

As though she spoke not twice. 

"Say, don't you think, my dear, 'twould be 

Better to cut wood here 
Than there, a half a mile away ? — 

What makes you be so queer?" 

The axe rose higher, heavier fell. 
The frown crept lower down ; 
" The block's best here !" he grunted out ; 
"Your voice would storm a town." 
126 



THE CHOrriNG-BLOCK. 

''I'd storm not what I could not take," 

She inwardly resolved. 
''If I spoke quick, I still was right. 

And that my haste absolved. 

"But I forgot, most sad for me. 

The lesson early learned. 
That only by a honeyed wand 

Can stubborn men be turned." 

Then to the house the strategist 

Came, and a winsome lay 
Fell from her lips, dashed through the air. 

And brushed his frown away. 

With careful skill she rolled the dough. 

And turned it into pies. 
Crimped near the edge, to keep within 

The fruit that gratifies. 

" HoAv many pies, my dearest dear, 

Had I best make this morn ? 
And would you like some custards, love. 

While working in the corn?" 

A voice more sweet could scarcely be 

Than spoke these inquiries ; 
Almost as sweet the one replied, 

** Make, dear, just what you please." 

*'0h, no, I have no will at all. 

But that which is your own ; 
You know, my dear, I live for you. 

And simply you, alone." 



127 



128 THANKSGIVING. 

A kiss somehow lodged on the breeze ; 

The chopping-block moved place ; 
The little wife resumed her toil, 

And brighter was her face. 

And brighter too the face of him, 
Who, later, 'mid the corn, 

With harrow turns out noisome weeds 
Before they seed have borne. 

''Man is the power within, without," 

He muses as he walks ; 
''The rightful head of house and farm. 

Naught his dominion balks." 

There's blessed bliss in ignorance, 
Controlling or controlled ; 

For he who thinks he ruleth most 
Is oftenest cajoled. 

A honeyed wand is ever best 
For driving whom you will : 

The head of house is driven not. 
Indeed, I know, — but still — 



THANKSGIVING. 

Summer has fled, her flowers are dead. 
The winter waits at autumn's gates. 
With snowy pall to shroud them all. 



129 



THE HARVEST KISS. 

Brief are the days of November haze ; 

The sun sleeps long, for there's no bird-song 

His rest to break with its sweet " awake !" 

Brown is the grass that we crush and pass, 
Brown are the leaves that drop from the eaves 
Of gold-roofed trees at touch of the breeze. 

Where frost stepped down there are footprints brown 
That the sun and rain will wash in vain, — 
But the spring will come with its joyful hum, 

The smile of God will bright the sod, 
The frost and snow into beauty blow. 
Blessed are we that we should see 

Such marvels here from year to year. 
Thrice blessed we'd be, could we perfectly 
Read what is writ as the seasons flit. 

And mark the days with grateful praise. 
Thanksgiving then in the hearts of men 
Would endless be as eternitv. 



THE HARVEST KISS. 

The kiss you gave me last year 

On the load of hay, 
I never shall forget, dear, 

Till my dying day. 

12 



I30 



THE AMERICAN TOURISTS LESSON. 

The fields were bare, you know, then, 

That load was the last. 
The sunset sky it blushed when 

Pageant day had passed. 

The harvesters rejoiced, dear, 

In their labor done. 
I scarcely heard their loud cheer : 

I my love had won. 

Far up amid the twilight, 

Where the stars awake, 
I clasped you as a tryst-right, 

My first kiss to take. 

And now I come again, dear, 

When the harvest's o'er. 
The kiss you gave me last year 

Waits, my love, for more. 



THE AMERICAN TOURIST'S LESSON. 

The prairie's crossed ; the West is East ; 

The old Atlantic band 
Of Puritans have spread their wings 

And covered all the land. 

The silent places wake with song : 

The plains and mountains wide 
Are dotted o'er with pleasant nests. 

Where builders, twitterers, hide. 



THE AMERICAN TOURIST'S LESSON. 

The eagle on Glen Eyrie's wall 

Has bound her castle high, 
While man, with emulation grand, 

Has planted his close by. 

The tents, like fallen feathers, bright 

The Rocky Mountain Parks. 
The tourists nestle, roam, and glide 

About the canyon darks. 

The West a faded myth becomes, 

A vision of the past. 
There only is the East, the East, 

We've learned by rote at last. 

In cabin, tent, on mount and plain, 

Where birds of passage meet. 
There ever is the same refrain 

With cordial smile replete : 

*' The East, the East ! we're from the East !' 

They chant it every one, 
Until we marvel that like clouds 

Men chase the setting sun. 

One day, when, weary, sore of flight 

Adown the Pike's Peak trail. 
We paused for shelter in a cot. 

Rude, comfortless, and frail, 

A woman weather-beaten, kind, 

Warmed us with fire and smile. 
"I'm from away down East," she said, 

"And only stop awhile." 



131 



32 



LOST MUSIC. 

Our homesick hearts with quickened bound 

Inquired her native State ; 
She said, "Missouri," and she sobbed, 

*' The distance is so great !" 

With melting pity we recalled 

A group we earlier met, 
Who told us to the '* distant East" 

Their thoughts kept turning yet. 

Their sighed-for East was Kansas fair. 

In Utah, just beyond. 
The Rocky Mountains were the East ; 

So we the lesson conned: 

The prairies, plains, and mountains crossed. 

We touch Pacific shore, 
But we have crossed the East, the East ; 

The West goes on before. 



LOST MUSIC. 

Clattering, clattering. 
Falls the wheat pattering 

Into the hoppers old. 
Then up it goes jolting, 
Down it comes bolting. 

And the warm flour is sold. 



THE STRAWBERRY TRYST 

Clattering, clattering, 
Grinding and pattering, 

Notes that are lost on me. 
The mill keeps repeating 
Its musical greeting. 

The water-wheel dances free. 

Only the clattering 
Seems a mock chattering 

Of the sweet tinkling past, 
And e'en the corn breaking 
With heavy bass quaking. 

Falls on me dumb at last. 

Clattering, clattering. 
Tinkling and pattering. 

Oh for the early days 
When we milled together, 
And I wondered whether 

Fairest was wheat or maize ! 



133 



THE STRAWBERRY TRYST. 

The field was broad, and the strawberries sweet, 
That hung where wind and sunshine meet. 
They parted the grass with fingers fair. 
And gathered the strawberries red with care : 
They parted the grass, and their fingers grew 
Scarlet with strawberry blood or dew. 
12* 



134 THE EMPTY SWING. 

With well-filled baskets from parted grass, 
They sit to rest where the shadows pass. 
The oak and the elm tree tinge the air, 
The lark and the oriole's notes are there. 
The boscage bows to the dream of bees 
And listens to catch their melodies. 

The boscage bows, and tlie strawberry maid, 
Lulled by the musical breath of shade. 
Forgets the thorn in her finger-tip. 
The badge of her strawberry workmanship, 
Till all at once, with a wave of pain. 
The brier its presence betrays again. 

The strawberry youth is tender and strong, 

He plucks from her hand the wee brier throng, 

Into his own flesh pressing it deep : 

"A strawberry souvenir," he sighs, "to keep.'' 

Sorrowful eyes, melodious shade, 

Tove for love breathes the strawberry maid. 



THE EMPTY SWING. 

Forward and back, forward and back. 

Under the apple-tree. 
May wind pushes an empty seat 

With careless hand and free. 



IN THE MEADOW. 135 

The blushing bloom, the blossom snow, 

Is drifting round the swing ; 
The children fair, whose place is there, 

Are low with suffering. 

A dire disease encompassed them ; 

They struggle it to pass, 
That little feet may swing again 

Above the orchard grass. 

Mockery seems the floral day. 

With all her choral train ; 
Mockery seems the golden breeze 

That leaves them only pain. 

The empty, empty, empty swing, 

That tosses to and fro, 
The cruellest mockery seems of all 

Amid the blossom snow. 

We tearful from the May world turn 

To cool each fevered brow, 
And pray with fervency of heart 

To hope, to bear, to bow. 



IN THE MEADOW. 

Buttercups nod in the meadow 
Mid bloom of fairer hue. 

The grass in green, green fringes 
Is headed with violets blue. 



136 



IN THE MEADOW. 

The sparkling stream in the meadow 

Dances a gladsome tune, 
And the birds in the water willow 

Chirp to the frogs of June. 

Two little boys, human blossoms, 

Sit by the rippling stream, 
With fishing-rods over the water. 

Hooks where no fish may dream. 

One bobbin a-quiver goes under, 

Quick hands toss up the rod, 
And a glittering sun-fish panting 

Lies where buttercups nod. 

Another rod's up ; a sly nibble 

Left but the naked hook ; 
A new worm's life must be taken 

To cover the ugly crook. 

"I think," utters six-year, while baiting, 
'' That worms don't have much fun. 

It's queer why God, when He made them. 
Gave them no feet to run." 

^* It's no more fun to be fish than worm," 

Remarks the active eight, 
" And how, Vickers, would we get the fish 

If we had no worms for bait?" 

" I don't know, — but it seems to me 

A pity to hurt such things ; 
They are so nice, and they don't complain, 

None of 'em bites or stings." 



AUTUMN COLOR. 137 

The fishing-tackle fell on the grass ; 

Vickers, with thoughtful air, 
His chin on his palm, ^aid musingly, 

" I wonder if God will care?" 

I wonder, my little philosopher. 

Ah ! older heads than thine 
Have rested 'mid beauty, and questioned 

If they wrought God's design. 



AUTUMN COLOR. 

Out in the browning grass-field, 

Under the chestnut-tree, 
The wind throws satin wonders 

Down to the children three. 

He whistles and sings, the north wind, 
His notes are gay and free. 

He must be thinking of Christmas, 
Up in the chestnut-tree. 

Three "Red Riding-Hood" children 

Catch the tune, you see ; 
If not — they catch the chestnuts 

Tinder the grand old tree. 



138 THE RAIN OF SEPARATION AND THE BOW. 

Brown little hands close grasp them, 

Voices are full of glee ; 
Pockets no longer slender 

Shine through the dresses three. 

Light fairies crowned with scarlet, 

The maidens, — oh, dear me ! 
They turn their faces toward me 

And laugh out merrily. 

Brown, brown, brown are the faces. 

Bright as the nuts I see. 
Dame Nature brands the races, 

Marking them carefully. 

Brown is the autumn color. 

Dark little children three. 
Ye are Ethiop fairies 

Under the chestnut-tree. 



THE RAIN OF SEPARATION AND 
THE BOW. 

'TwAS the high noon of the year, 
A glorious summer twilight. 
When we parted, 
But the purple air seemed drear ; 
We were blind to all the cheer, 
Broken-hearted. 



THE RAIN OF SEPARATION AND THE BOW. 

Our life-paths must divide, 

That our separate tasks be done, 

Or endeavored. 
Trees that spring up side by side 
Are transplanted far and wide, 

Families severed. 

Every tree, that it expand, 

Must have sun, and time, and space, 

To perfect in. 
Every life alone must stand. 
That its strength attain command 

To effect in. 

All the love that e'er has been, 

All the tender yearning care 

Souls can measure, 

Cannot save our dearest kin 

From the troublous waves, or win 

For them pleasure. 

Prayerful, patient faith provides 
All the safeguard we possess 

For each other. 
Individual act decides 
Whether we can stem the tides, 

Not our brother. 



139 



New delight dissolves our tears. 
And caresses them to smiles, 
Gloom is blighted. 



I40 



A MIDDAY BATTLE NOTE. 

We may meet — the misty years 
Are transfigured ; clouds and fears 
Rainbow-lighted. 



A MID-DAY BATTLE NOTE. 

The days are hot, and the days are cold, 

But the battle for life goes on. 
We press to the front, with scars untold, 

And the victory barely won. 

We press to the front and hold our own, 
By effort and God's sweet grace, 

While the sun and shadow have softly thrown 
Age lines into beauty's place. 

The poet may sing, the yeoman plough, 

The philosopher rub his stone, 
We are warm with sympathy, yet somehow 

We must fight our battle alone. 

For life is double within, without. 
With scars and with blossoms fair. 

And we are alone, though compassed about 
With a wealth of love and care. 



EXULTATION. 14 j 

Each cry for strength and each prayer of thanks 

Must peal from our inmost soul, 
If it reach the Lord of the battle ranks 

As the tides of action roll. 

There is no rest, and no grand discliarge, 

But we fall out one by one. 
Receiving our pensions, small or large. 

According to service done. 



EXULTATION. 

A CHESTER HEIGHTS HYMN.'^- 

I AM saved ! the Lord hath saved me ! 

Help me shout the glorious news ! 
I have tasted God's salvation, 

And 'tis sweet as honeyed dews. 

Loud I sing my exultation, 
Hoping it will reach the skies. 

Keep, dear Lord, my soul forever 
Under Thy protecting eyes ! 

When at last my days are gathered 
Into Thy great judgment one. 

May I find my name deep written 
In the records of the Son. 



*" Set to music by Prof. Sweney. 



142 



THE SUNSHINE. 

Bless the Lord, that His salvation 

Came to us through Christ's pure love; 

Bless Him that He Jesus loaned us 
From His Golden Courts above. 

Free salvation ! glad salvation ! 

Let us shout from pole to pole, 
Until each diseased nation 

Feels that God hath made it whole. 



THE SUNSHINE. 

I WAS slumbering in the meadow. 

At the streamlet's pearly feet. 

Where the trailing willow shadow 

Kissed the breeze and made it sweet ; 
And the sunshine yellow. 
With his breath so mellow. 

Touched me there. 
Close beside me kneeled he ; 
God's great love revealed he, 
iVnd His care. 

I was clambering up the mountain. 
And the way was rugged, steep. 

While the sky's outpouring fountain 
Lashed and groaned to reach the deep ; 



7 HE NEW YEAR'S RIDE. 

But the sunshine yellow, 
With his breath so mellow, 

Touched me there. 
Close beside me kneeled he ; 
God's great love revealed he, 
And His care. 

I was over, through, and under 

Valley, ocean, hill, and plain ; 
I was bowed with grief and wonder — 
But the brightness came again; 
For the sunshine yellow, 
With his breath so mellow, 

Touched me there. 
Close beside me kneeled he ; 
God's great love revealed he 
Everywhere. 



M3 



THE NEW-YEAR'S RIDE. 

The sun rose bright that New-Year's day, 
And Uncle Goodwin's family sleigh 
Was at the gate. The robes and bricks 
Made comfort for the load of six. 

Now, Harry, uncle's oldest son, 
A pony had that liked to run : 
This pony Harry wished to ride 
And keep his father's team beside. 



144 THE NEW YEAR'S RIDE. 

The snow was smooth, the horses gay, 
The bright load dashed along its way. 
Harry, upon his pony black, 
Kept close within the sleigh's crisp track, 

Over the prairie broad and clear. 

Until Madge exclaimed, '' We're here !" 

And loving Grandpa, at the gate, 

Called, "Happy New Year! Children, wait. 

Out he lifted them one and all, — 
Jack, May, and Madge, and baby small, 
While Aunt and Uncle laughed to see 
Dear Grandpa hugged so merrily. 

" Ho, Harry boy, a pony ! why, 
The coal-black racer takes my eye ! 
Get off, my son ! You're quite a man." 
To see his pony then Grandma ran. 

And such a time they had that day. 
The gifts, the dinner, the jolly play; 
I can't tell half, but you folks know 
Who to your grandpa's New-Years' go. 

Just as turkey was served to all. 
New flakes of snow began to fall : 
" The good old lady in the sky 
Is picking geese, the feathers fly," 

Said Uncle Goodwin. ''I declare. 
To-morrow must be New Year's there," 
Laughed Madge, '^ and goose their feast : 
I'd rather be down here at least." 



45 



THE NEW YEAR'S RIDE. 

These good days cannot always last, 
And this one's close came all too fast. 
At four o'clock the family sleigh 
Was packed again, and sped away. 

*' Harry," said Uncle, " mount, and keep 
Close, for the snow is growing deep." 
" Yes," called Harry, '' I'll do quite well. 
Good-by, Grandpa, Grandma, and Bell." 

He tied his scarf in a jaunty bow, 
Touched his hat, and said, " Coaly, go !" 
Across the plain so soft and white 
He rode, and soon was out of sight. 

The flakes fell fast, the fierce wind blew ; 
Coaly plodded the white depth through 
Slowly, for now the track was lost. 
And only drifts the prairie crossed. 

The jingling bells were far away, 
And Harry was lost that New-Year's day. 
On, on he went till night was near, 
Cold and tired, and filled with fear. 

What do you think he saw at last, 
When hope and strength were failing fast ? 
Lit by a gleam in the winter sky. 
Far ahead he could descry 

Grandpa's house with its snowy dome. 
''I wonder," thought Harry, "if this is home. 
The knowing pony increased his pace. 
And found the end of his circling race. 



,46 A NATIONAL DIRGE. 

Such a ride was the New-Year's ride. 
Harry was soon at Grandpa's side, 
Declaring, as he does to this day, 
" I cannot see how we lost the way." 



A NATIONAL DIRGE. 

James A, Garfield, twentieth President of the United States, died 
from the effect of an assassin's bullet, September 19, 1881. 

He is dead ; the nation weeps, 

He is dead, dead, dead. 
Worn with pain, at last he sleeps ; 

He is dead, dead, dead. 

Faithful hands may still their care. 

He is dead, dead, dead. 
Mourning hearts are everywhere, 

He is dead, dead, dead. 

Snapped our cord of hopes and fears, 

He is dead, dead, dead. 
Tears and crape, and crape and tears ; 

He is dead, dead, dead. 

Sobbing break the prayers half said, — 

He is dead, dead, dead. 
Freely we had died instead. 

He is dead, dead, dead. 



A NATIONAL DIRGE. 

He, our loved, our pure, our lost, 
He is dead, dead, dead. 

The green land is shadow-crossed, 
He is dead, dead, dead. 

Heavy night winds toss and sigh 
He is dead, dead, dead. 

Mercy's angel passed us by, 
He is dead, dead, dead. 

Life too grand for mortal hold ; 

He is dead, dead, dead. 
Gathered to a Safer Fold, 

While we wail him dead, dead. 

September 21, 1881. 



147 



THE END. 



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